


You're the only one

by Blackboard_Monitor



Series: Totally not a Songfic [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Build, Violence Warning, and draco cries in like every chapter oops, not graphic though, so many things happen in this fic i'm not sure what tags to add, there's arguing and fighting and drama and kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackboard_Monitor/pseuds/Blackboard_Monitor
Summary: As promised, a sequel to I don't wanna talk about it. Draco and Harry meet again in the wizarding world's only known gay bar just as the crowd cheers in a new millennium. They haven't seen each other since the Battle of Hogwarts, and neither has been doing all that great. Yelling at each other ensues. And, later, other things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I had the last fic completed before I started posting it. This, on the other hand, is a work in progress, so don't expect updates frequently or consistently. I procrastinate. Compliment my writing if you like it, as I am thirsty for approval and this will motivate me to keep going :D

It was two years since the war, and it had not been a good two years for Draco. Then again, he reflected, the two years before the war hadn’t been all that great either. Or the two years before that. In fact, if he thought about it, there wasn’t a two-year period in his entire 19-year life that would have been anything other than varying shades of miserable. He tried not to think about it.

“…3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”

Draco stared gloomily at the bar through the bottom of his empty glass as the crowd around him burst into cheers, kissing, laughing and clinking glasses. A new millennium, then. A fuckload of good it did him.

He knew he should have stayed home. But he hadn’t wanted to run the risk of his mother inviting herself over. Again. She wasn’t adjusting well to life without Lucius. Or life without money, power and status, Draco reflected as he attempted to flag down the bartender for another drink. Then again, neither was he. He had been raised to step into a very specific pair of shoes his whole life, but when the time came, they had been confiscated by the Ministry to pay for his father’s alleged war crimes. The Malfoy name, once commending respect and opening doors, now condemned them social outcasts. And Draco was left without shoes, metaphorically, and without a future, literally.

At least he had the consolation of knowing that Saint Potter wasn’t doing too well, either. Draco wasn’t entirely sure why that was a consolation – for all intents and purposes he shouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about Potter or anything he did and didn’t do – but it was. It made him feel better about his own pitiful circumstances in a petty, bitter way.

Potter, apparently, had more opportunities than he knew what to do with. He couldn’t seem to settle on anything. In the two years since the war ended, he had gone from pursuing an auror career to a promising season with Chudley Cannons to a job at the ministry. At this point, even the magazines were starting to ask questions. _HARRY POTTER – HAUNTED BY THE WAR?_ inquired the headlines.

Finally succeeding in getting the bartender’s attention, Draco ordered another scotch, ignoring the odd looks from the tequila-drinking party people around him. He may not have been rich or powerful, but he could still have class, at least. The day he started drinking cheap tequila would be the day he’d check himself into St. Mungo.

Sipping his drink, Draco wished he could bloody stop thinking about Potter for once. But it was supremely difficult, since the insufferable git was _everywhere_. Not in person, of course, but in every magazine, every newspaper, his stupid spectacled face staring down at Draco from posters and billboards, yet always refusing to meet his eye. That was how he knew what was going on with Potter, of course. It wasn’t like they had any mutual friends. It wasn’t as if Draco had any friends, really.

In person, Draco didn’t think he’d seen Potter since the Battle. Hell, he had barely seen Potter since Dumbledore’s funeral. Or talked to him since… well, since Draco had bailed on him.

He would always have that, at least. That he turned down the great Harry Potter. Not that anyone would ever know. And not that it was much of a consolation when he couldn’t help but spend night after night wondering, what it? What if he hadn’t been so scared of himself and what he felt and what it meant? What if he had let whatever it was go wherever it was going?

All of that was pointless speculation, of course. There was no way, at the time, that Draco could ever have had the courage to enter a relationship with any boy, let alone Harry Potter, of all people. The whole concept was outrageous. 16-year-old Draco had been so terrified of his sexuality, of what it implied, that after his brief… involvement with Potter, he had spent the next year in an intense and extremely public relationship with Pansy Parkinson, which, thankfully, had been ended by the Malfoys’ post-war fall from grace.

It was only once Voldemort was dead and Lucius in prison that Draco had even dared let the thought enter his mind again. But when he did, he realised that it was there to stay. Effectively, whatever had happened with Potter in those few, short weeks when Draco was at his lowest, had changed two things. First, he was spared having to kill Dumbledore. Of course, it had later come to light that he would never have actually had to, because Snape was always going to do it, but he didn’t know it at the time. And second, he found out that there was such a thing as homosexuality.

Once he knew about it, it wasn’t that hard to put the rest together. As it turned out, gay people did exist in the wizarding world. It was just that, as a rather tipsy lesbian witch had grandiloquently explained during Draco’s first visit to this very bar, they were few and far between, because homosexuality was even more of a taboo in the wizarding world than it apparently was in the muggle one. So it was almost impossible for them to find each other without risking exposure. There were rumours, of course, but it was difficult to parse out the ones that were actually true. Still, the witch had insisted, even Albus Dumbledore himself had been gay. Draco wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to believe that, especially considering the witch went on to describe a rather scandalous conspiracy theory involving Dumbledore and Grindelwald, which would have offended Gryffindors and Slytherins alike.

So, here Draco was, in the wizarding world’s only gay bar, on New Year’s Eve – New Year’s Day now, actually – completely alone and on the fast lane to deep intoxication, while the crowd around him cheered in the new millennium. He had no friends, no family apart from his mother, no money and no future.

He worked in a _shop_ , for fuck’s sake. He, Draco Malfoy, spent his days being forced to _serve_ people and _smile_ at them. It was torture, it was beneath him and he hated every second of it. It wasn’t the future he had been promised, the future he had worked for his entire life.

Really, it was all Potter’s fault. When you really got into it, everything was. If the bastard had just had the grace to die like a normal person when he was a baby, none of this would have ever happened. Sure, the Dark Lord may have ended up the totalitarian ruler of the world, but at least Draco would have a life. One that didn’t revolve around obsessing over Harry bloody Potter. Draco fought the urge to slam his head into the bar. He didn’t need to call attention to himself.

Draco counted the coins in his pocket, laying them out on the bar, each little click accompanied by the weight of a time when he never even considered the possibility of having to count his money, and the burning, bitter rage that that time was in the past.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

The voice was quiet, barely audible over the din of the party, but it was very close. Draco started, turning around on his stool. When he saw who had made the offer, he froze, feeling his stomach turn over.

Harry Potter was standing right next to him. He looked exactly the same as always and eerily different all at once. He had the same ugly glasses, same lack of fashion sense and brown skin, his hair shorter now than it had been in Hogwarts but still as black, a lime green party hat perched awkwardly on the dark curls. His lips – soft, warm, supplied Draco’s memory unhelpfully – were twisted up into an infuriatingly amused smirk. And his arm was wrapped around none other than she-Weasley.

It took Draco a few seconds to recover from the shock, but when he did, he found himself suddenly furious. First of all, what was Potter even doing here to begin with? He had said he wasn’t gay, hadn’t he? And, more to the point, he was with a woman. What the fuck kind of right did he think he had to be here? Weren’t there enough straight bars in London? Second, did Harry Potter really have nothing better to do than mock Draco? He could maybe understand the appeal in Hogwarts, where there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, but one would have thought after everything they would be past that by now. Yet here Potter was, clearly itching to rub Draco’s face into the fact that he was as popular, successful and wealthy as Draco wasn’t. It was rude, it was unnecessary and it was just plain mean.

“No, Potter,” Draco said icily, swiping the coins back into his pocket, “you can’t buy me a drink.”

He felt vague satisfaction at the way Potter’s smile froze under his glare. Draco pushed himself up, fighting a rush to his head that reminded him of how many drinks he had had. He pushed past Potter, making a beeline for the door, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here.

Draco was very nearly at the exit when a hand closed around his wrist. He spun around, furious, wrenching his arm free.

“Fuck _off_ , Potter!” he snarled, a bit louder than he had intended.

Potter glanced around self-consciously, exactly like someone who was used to everyone always looking at him. This time no one was, though. Everyone was either too drunk or too cheerful to even notice Potter was there.

“What’re you yelling at me for?” Potter demanded. He must have been pissed out of his mind, because he looked genuinely confused. “I was just trying to be nice.”

Draco laughed out loud. “Nice?” he echoed. “I haven’t seen you for two years and then you show up _here_ with your _girlfriend_ just to rub my face into how much better you are than me. And that’s your idea of being fucking _nice_?”

Potter blinked. “Ginny’s not m’girlfriend,” he said, slurring slightly.

“What?” asked Draco.

“Not my girlfriend,” Potter repeated, more confidently. “I mean, yeah, for a while, but… didn’t really work. We’re just friends now.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you have no fucking business being here,” Draco snapped, wondering why he was still talking to Potter at all.

Potter opened his mouth to change something but changed his mind. Instead, he grabbed Draco’s arm again and, before he could protest, dragged him the rest of the way outside.

“Can’t hear my own bloody thoughts in there,” Potter muttered, stopping a few feet from the door.

“Thought Gryffindors liked that,” Draco commented, somewhat lamely. He was starting to feel like the last drink may have been too much.

Potter laughed. “Lots of misconceptions about Gryffindors,” he said cryptically.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Potter?” Draco demanded.

“Why’d you say I have no business being here?” asked Potter. He never could answer a straight question. Although coming from Draco, maybe it was a gay question? Either way, it made Draco angry.

“Do you really need to ask that? Do you know what this place is?”

“Of course I know what this place is! And I have just as much a right to be here as you do,” Potter said angrily.

“What, because you have a right to be anywhere, by virtue of being Harry Potter?” growled Draco.

“By virtue of being bisexual, you prat,” Potter spat.

Draco froze. He was definitely too drunk for this. He could practically feel his filter dissolving. “Oh,” he managed.

It was at this point that flashbacks to a certain moonlit corridor three years ago began piercing through the veil of drunkenness in Draco’s mind because, all of a sudden, he and Potter were standing very close together. He could smell the alcohol on Potter’s breath.

“What do you want from me?” Draco repeated, but quietly this time. He felt uncomfortably breathless all of a sudden.

Potter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “to talk?”

“About what?”

“Anything, really. Haven’t seen you in a long time.” It was just a statement, a simple fact, but something about the way Potter said it, the way he looked away, read as _I missed you_.

And Draco really, really, shouldn’t have drank so much, because had he been even slightly more sober, he wouldn’t have found himself capturing Potter’s face between his palms, pushing him back against the brick wall of the building behind him, crushing their lips together in the kiss he had longed for since the last one under the tree in the Hogwarts yard. But he was drunk, and Potter was kissing him back now, pulling him closer, so Draco gave in, losing himself in the moment, wishing violently for it to last forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco wasn’t sure if he woke up or came to. Either way he felt about as refreshed as rising from the grave.

In the first split-second of consciousness, he had no idea where or when he was. He tensed, his body flooding with panic. What day was it? Was he late for work? His eyes flew open and then squeezed back shut when the onslaught of cold winter sunlight threatened to split his aching head in half.

Slowly, information trickled back into his mind. It was New Year’s Day. The shop was closed today. He was fine. He could go back to sleep. Draco exhaled slowly, relaxing back into the regrettably lumpy mattress.

It was then that he became aware of the weight of an arm draped across his torso, of the heat of another body right next to his, of the soft sounds of a sleepy breathing. Draco suppressed a groan.

So he had brought someone home. Again. Even though he had sworn that he never would, not after last time. Yet here he was. And now instead of falling back into the loving arms of unconsciousness, Draco would have to get up and get rid of this person, whoever he was.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered under his breath. This wasn’t a good way to start a millennium in anyone’s book.

Gingerly, he slipped out from underneath the covers and the arm of his unwelcome visitor, and stood up. Curiously, he appeared to have slept fully dressed. That didn’t quite add up with the stranger in his bed, but then again, he had practically no memory of the previous night, so who knows what he had gotten up to.

Draco turned.

The breath he had drawn to wake up whoever he had brought home got lost in his lungs and resurfaced as a startled squeak.

Sleeping in Draco’s bed, dark hair sticking up in odd angles, startlingly long eyelashes brushing against soft skin, looking so different – younger, more vulnerable – without his glasses on, was Harry Potter.

For a moment Draco could do nothing but stare in stunned silence. _How the_ fuck _did that happen?_ he thought feebly. All his memory had to offer was a blurry image of yelling at Potter in an alley outside the bar. After that there was nothing.

Then Draco realised that this was bad. Really bad. For so many reasons that he wasn’t even sure where to start. First of all, Draco hated letting anyone see how he lived now, his tiny flat in a less-than-great part of town, with creaky floors and peeling wallpaper. Which was why he only ever brought anyone home if he was way too drunk. And for it to be Potter was so much worse, because Potter would never want for anything for as long as he lived, and the last thing Draco needed was his pity.

Second, every single reason he had rejected Potter to begin with was still there, worse now, if anything. He was Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, as Slytherin as they come, Dark Mark still visible on his arm despite his best efforts. And this was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, saviour of the wizarding world, destined for greatness. Even if you ignored the fact that they were both men – which absolutely no one would – if this ever got out the scale of the scandal would be astronomical.

All this went through his mind in a split second, spinning him into a panic. This couldn’t happen, there was absolutely no way this could have happened. He hated Potter, Potter hated him. It was common knowledge.

Draco rubbed his temples, trying to clear his aching head.

He just needed to get Potter out of here. It was probably still early. He just had to get Potter out as soon as possible and then it would be like none of this ever happened. Whatever this was. He still couldn’t remember what had happened, exactly.

“Potter. Wake up.”

Potter woke with a start. Draco barely had time to blink before he was sitting up, wand drawn and fumbling for his glasses on the night stand. Draco lifted his hands defensively, unwilling to have his head blown off.

“Get back,” Potter said hoarsely. His hand closed around his glasses and he nearly stabbed himself in the eye with the earpiece as he jammed them on his face. He squinted. “ _Malfoy?_ ”

 _I’m a surprised as you are_ , Draco wanted to say. Instead, he found himself raising his eyebrows and saying, caustically, “Do you always sleep with that thing?”

Potter lowered his wand hastily. Draco could have sworn he was blushing, but it was hard to tell with the brown shade of his skin.

“Sorry,” Potter muttered. He looked around. “Where…?” he started, and then turned to Draco, eyes wide. In a different situation Draco might have laughed at how alarmed he looked.

“You need to get up,” Draco said bluntly. “And get out.”

Potter made no attempt to move. “Did we…?”

“Of course not!” Draco snapped. In reality, he had no idea. They were both fully dressed, which was a good sign, at least, but beyond that he was in the dark.

“Good,” Potter said, sounding genuinely relieved, “good.”

Trying his best to ignore the peculiar stab in his chest, Draco said, “Will you just get out already?”

“You’re the one who invited me here,” Potter said defensively. When Draco just glared at him, he relented and, scratching the back of his head sheepishly, added, “I assume.”

“Get out,” Draco repeated icily. His head was pounding and he could feel his jaw tightening and he was going to lose his mind if he had to look at Potter in his bed for one more minute.

Potter’s expression hardened. “Fine,” he snapped. “Just let me find my shoes.”

Potter tossed the covers aside and jumped out of bed, stalking around the room in search of his shoes. Draco scoffed.

“What?” Potter demanded.

“Honestly, Potter,” said Draco, as he pulled out his wand. “You’re such a muggle. Accio Potter’s shoes.”

Draco grimaced as the shoes emerged from under the dresser and flew into his hand. Touching other people’s shoes was not on the top of his to do list. He tossed them at Potter, not bothering to hide his distaste. Potter muttered something under his breath as he pulled his shoes on.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Draco asked, wondering why he could never just shut up when it came to Potter.

Potter straightened. “I said you’re insufferable and I hate you,” he said defiantly.

“Likewise,” said Draco, but it was unlikely that Potter heard him, as he disapparated halfway through the word. Exhausted beyond words, Draco half walked, half fell face first back into bed, deciding that he was just going to go back to sleep and not get up ever again.

Except that his bed sheets smelled like Potter and suddenly Draco felt nauseous. He stumbled to his feet and staggered to the bathroom.

Having emptied the mostly liquid contents of his stomach, Draco rested his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet and wondered how the hell he had ended up here. What, exactly, had gone so wrong in his life, that had brought him to this precise moment?

But, of course, Draco knew the answer to that. Everything that had ever gone wrong in his life, it all could be traced back to the same bloody person, over and over and over again. Slowly, a constricting weight settled into his chest and Draco knew that there was no possible way he could have screwed himself over worse, because he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so if you were expecting smut, you've come to the wrong author. Not cause I'm opposed to it, but because I couldn't write it if my life depended on it. It's like "cock.....er spaniel". Can't do it. Sorry. Other than that, hope you like it.


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, it was surprisingly easy to pretend it never happened.

Draco kept waiting for Rita Skeeter to turn up at his door, demanding the details of his nightly encounter with the great Harry Potter. But days turned to weeks and weeks to months and before he knew it, it was all blue skies and daffodils and sunshine that served merely to illustrate how dirty his windows were.

And then, on the last week of April, disaster struck.

It was just an average Wednesday afternoon; the shop was next to empty and Draco was sitting behind the register, leafing idly through a dusty copy of ‎ _Magical Moral Perspective_. It was a warm day, and the air inside the shop was hot and smelled like parchment and dust. And this was only April. Draco shuddered when he remembered what the heat had been like August. It had to be said for muggles, at least they had figured out how to keep their buildings cool in the summer.

Draco was shaken out of his thoughts by the jingle of the door opening. Half relieved of a disruption in his slow and painful death of boredom, half irritated by the prospect of having to pretend to be nice to customers, he looked up. Just in time to see the flaming red hair of what could only be a Weasley disappear behind a shelf, followed by the unmistakable form of the bane of Draco’s existence. Harry Potter.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat and then, as he ducked out of sight behind the counter, made up for it for hammering so hard that he could barely hear Potter’s conversation even in the tomb-like silence of the shop. He dug his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to concentrate.

“—understand why you can’t just have Ginny pick something like you did for Christmas,” Potter was saying, a trace of impatience in his voice.

“It’s our anniversary, Harry! I can’t ask my little sister to pick out the gift,” said Weasley. _Ah_ , thought Draco. So they were shopping for the mudblood. A bookshop did seem like the place for that, he had to admit. Still, did it have to be during his shift, of all times? Shouldn’t they have been at work? But, of course, Draco knew from the papers that Potter wasn’t working right now. Why should he? He was rich and famous and loved by all.

“I’m just saying, she’s good at it,” Potter insisted.

“Yes, thank you, I had no idea,” Weasley said irritably. There was a silence, interspersed by footsteps and the shuffling of paper. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Potter sighed. He was standing much closer to the register now. Draco found himself holding his breath. “Just pick something already, this is like the third shop we’ve been to.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had somewhere to be,” said Weasley.

The muffled thud of a book slamming into a table was so loud that Draco jumped, hitting his elbow painfully.

“You know what?” snapped Potter. “Fuck you.”

Loud receding steps that stopped abruptly.

“Harry, I’m sorry,” Weasley said. Draco was surprised to hear the sincerity in the words. He couldn’t ever recall apologising like that to any of his so-called friends. Definitely not for something like a minor insult, at any rate. “I didn’t mean it like that, you know I didn’t.”

“Right.” Potter sounded bitter, but only half-heartedly.

“I’m just losing my mind over this anniversary thing, okay?” said Weasley.

Potter sighed. “I know and I don’t understand why. It’s just Hermione, Ron,” he said.

“Yeah, well, your ‘just Hermione’ is my most incredible woman in the whole world who is so far out of my league that every morning I wake up and can’t believe she’s next to me, and I’m just waiting for the moment I do something to screw it up because clearly I’m not good enough for her, you know?”

Draco rolled his eyes. _Straight people_ , he thought and then winced, because his legs were beginning to cramp up from crouching down for so long.

“No, I don’t know,” said Potter. “You’re my best mate, and so is she, and you’re perfect for each other. So stop flipping out and pick a book, so we can go have tea, already. I’m starving.”

Draco stifled a groan. Were all Gryffindors so appallingly affectionate, or was that just Potter and the Weasel? If he didn’t know better, he would have thought they were lovers.

Footsteps approached the register and Draco realised he had a problem. Weasley was going to buy something, which meant that he was going to have to sell it, because he was the only one in the shop. Which, in turn, meant that he was going to have to stand up, and then Potter would know that he had been hiding behind the counter this whole time. Fuck, he was going to have to talk to Potter. _I’d kill for some Polyjuice right about now_ , Draco thought desperately.

And then it was way too late, because Weasley was peering over the counter, and Draco was still crouching on the floor, and it was so much worse than standing up would have been.

“Malfoy!?”

The exclamation was followed by the clattering of a dropped book on the other side of the shop.

“Are you… hiding?” Weasley’s tone was hovering somewhere between confusion and amusement.

Draco stood up and straightened his robes, trying to repair whatever was left of his dignity. It didn’t help that his face was on fire, which meant that he was probably the delightful shade of a boiled ham right about now. “No,” he said, stupidly, because there was no other plausible reason for what he had been doing, so at least he could have been man enough to admit it.

Weasley looked him up and down, and his eyebrows rose up so high that they disappeared under his hair. To his absolute horror, Draco realised that Weasley was better dressed than him. He could have sank through the floor with the shame of it.

“Harry, get over here!”

Draco drew a deep breath and braced himself as Potter emerged from between the shelves. He looked the same as he had four months ago, except… more tired, somehow? Of course, it was hard to tell, because Draco didn’t dare look at him for much longer and a glance, and Potter’s eyes were on everything but Draco.

“Look who I found,” said Weasley triumphantly.

Potter shifted awkwardly. “Who would have thought?” he said. “Draco Malfoy working in a shop?” Draco could tell that his heart wasn’t in the taunt, but it hurt nonetheless.

“We can’t all get by on the virtue of existing,” Draco said bitterly.

“Yeah?” said Weasley. “Career in deatheatering didn’t pan out?”

Reflexively, Draco grasped at his wrist. “That’s not a word,” he said through gritted teeth, as his fingernails dug into his flesh.

Weasley laughed humourlessly. “That’s all you have to say? ‘That’s not a word’? What are you, twelve?”

Draco fought the urge to pull out his wand and wipe the stupid smirk off of Weasley’s ugly, freckled face. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that no longer would attacking Potter and his friends land him in detention; times had changed and losing his temper now would be a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

“You know, Harry,” Weasley said thoughtfully, “I think he’s scared of us.”

“Just buy the damned book, Ron,” Potter replied wearily.

“Well, he should be bloody scared of us,” Weasley went on, seeming not to hear. There was a dangerous look in his eyes and Draco remembered in a flash that one of his brothers had died in the Battle. His grip on the Mark under his sleeve tightened again as he realised that Weasley was right. He was practically shaking.

Then Potter stepped forward and took the book from Weasley’s hand and laid it on the counter. “We’ll take this,” he said quietly.

Weasley turned to stare at Potter like he had just suggested they have a flobberworm-eating contest.

“He’s not worth it, Ron,” Potter said. “He’s nothing to us.”

Draco was abruptly grateful for the words even as they sliced into him like knives, because Weasley shrugged and turned back to Draco, saying, “Just do your bloody job, then, Malfoy.”

Trying not to imagine what his father would have to say about meekly taking orders from a Weasley, Draco typed the price into the register and slipped the book into a bag.

Weasley dropped a few coins onto the counter. “Keep the change,” he said. “You look like you could use it.”

Draco wasn’t sure, which was worse, that Ron Weasley, of all people was saying that to him, or that he couldn’t even deny it because it was true.

As he followed Weasley out, Potter turned to look at Draco over his shoulder. He mouthed something that looked suspiciously like ‘I’m sorry’, but must have been something else, because what reason would Potter have to apologise?

Once they were gone, Draco leaned heavily into the counter, trembling. He felt physically exhausted, like after a particularly intense Quidditch game. All he could think was that he would have to find a new job, because now they knew he worked here. Potter knew he worked here. And he wasn’t sure how many more run-ins with Potter he could live through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about this one, I think. I'm still not 100% sure where this story is gonna go but I'm enjoying it so far.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco had tried, he really had, to explain to his mother why this was a bad idea. But Narcissa had never been the most stable of people, and since the war she had veered in the direction of outright delusional. She refused, simply refused to believe that the doors of the world had closed in front of her son, had they ever truly been open. No matter what, she entertained the foolish dream that Draco still had the chance to make something of himself.

Hence, this stupid party.

Everything would have been fine had they owled the invitation to him, directly. But of course, no one – save Potter – actually knew where he lived now, so it had been Narcissa who received the letter in the Manor. Why the Patil twins would ever invite Draco to their birthday party in the first place was a complete mystery to him, but he suspected it was either someone’s idea of a joke, or some kind of attempt at “rebuilding” and “unity” and whatever the hell the ministry was spewing now. But of course his mother had decided that he was going, and there was no power in the world that could sway Narcissa Malfoy once she decided something.

And so, here Draco was, awkwardly handing whichever twin this was a gift he had spent an hour wrapping in the vain hope it would disguise how cheap it was. Clearly, she was as confused about why Draco was here as he was. She did thank him for the gift, at least.

Draco kept his eyes glued to the carpet as he crossed the room, which completely failed to spare him from the knowledge that everyone was staring at him; he could hear conversations dying and heads turning as he passed. This was going to be even worse than he imagined, and he never should have come. Fighting the urge to bolt – it would be rude to leave within the first hour or two – Draco deposited himself into the farthest corner he could find, resolved to just endure this.

If only it wasn’t so bloody _loud_. The music was obnoxious and did people really have to laugh like that? What was there to laugh about, anyway? And why where there so many people here? How did the Patils even know this many people? Draco didn’t know this many people. People didn’t have any business knowing this many people.

Draco tugged at his collar. It was too hot and his robes felt too tight and there just wasn’t enough air. Rude or not, he had to get outside, because if he stood here any longer he was sure he would choke.

Rapidly approaching panic, Draco pushed through a sea of glares out into the mostly deserted back yard. It wasn’t a particularly nice day, and it was getting cold now that the sun had set, but Draco was grateful for the sting of cold, fresh air in his lungs. He rushed past a few odd people, talking and/or smoking, until he drew up to the hedge and couldn’t go further.

Leaning heavily onto the tree in the corner of the garden, Draco tried to catch his breath. His head was swimming and his chest felt tight in a way he had become all too familiar with back during the War. He had to get out of here before he lost it, because he doubted there was an abandoned bathroom here to escape to.

“Bloody hell, McLaggen, you were right,” someone called loudly behind him. “It really is Draco fucking Malfoy.”

There was a note of malice in the tone that instantly put Draco on edge. Well, further on edge than he already was. He straightened up and turned around.

A group of people were making their way across the lawn towards him. There was no mistaking their destination, because Draco was the only one this far back into the garden. And, once he recognised their faces, Draco felt like there wasn’t much room for error in assuming their intentions, either. A Weasley twin and Seamus Finnigan, followed closely by she-Weasley and the mentioned McLaggen. Instinctively, Draco fumbled for his wand.

“What makes you think anyone would want to see your evil ferret face here?” called she-Weasley, as the gang came to a halt a few feet away. Draco couldn’t help but notice how they fanned out into a half-circle, blocking his exits. He tightened his grip on his wand.

“I was invited?” Draco suggested. He meant to sound calm and uninterested but somehow the nerves leaking into his voice made it come out standoffish. Which was probably bad in his current circumstance.

The next thing he knew, he was backed up against the hedge, and whichever Weasley twin it was that wasn’t dead was breathing in his face.

“You’ve got some nerve,” the undetermined twin growled. Draco tried to back away further and was greeted by thorns.

“Let’s show him what happens to Death Eaters, shall we, boys?” said McLaggen nastily. She-Weasley cleared her throat. “And Ginny,” McLaggen added quickly.

“It has been a while since I lit anything on fire,” Finnigan said thoughtfully. Draco was overcome by a brief flashback to all the things Finnigan had blown up over their Hogwarts education. He shuddered.

“And it’s been _ages_ since I got to do a good bat-bogey,” she-Weasley said brightly, pointing her wand at Draco.

Draco raised his wand. “Back off,” he said.

The lot of them burst out laughing.

“Draco thinks he can take all of us by himself,” snickered she-Weasley.

Draco did, in fact, manage to deflect she-Weasley’s bat-bogey hex and whatever pyrotechnics Finnigan attempted to conjure, but he was hit square in the chest by McLaggen’s _Expelliarmus_. He grunted as his wand slipped out of his fingers and his knees gave out, making contact with the thankfully soft grass.

“That was fun,” said twin-Weasley. “I have one, as well. _Levicorpus_.”

Draco felt an invisible noose tighten around his left ankle and yank him into the air. His neck snapped back unpleasantly as twin-Weasley jerked his limp body around while the others laughed. All Draco could do was close his eyes and hope it would be over soon; anything he said at this point would only make it worse.

“ _Liberacorpus!_ ”

The counter-jinx was shouted in a female voice from across the yard. Draco’s eyes snapped open. He caught a brief glimpse of Granger and Weasley were running across the lawn before crashing painfully back onto the ground. Even as stars swam in his eyes, Draco thought that somehow his evening had just managed to get even worse, because if Granger and Weasley were here, so was Potter.

“Are you people insane?” Granger demanded as she drew up to them. “Do you have any idea what could happen if you were caught using magic like that? I mean, just off the top of my head, I could name at least… nine different codes you’re violating right now.”

“Who gives a shit? He’s a Death Eater,” said twin-Weasley fiercely.

“I do!” Granger snapped. “And so should you. Do you _want_ to go to Azkaban, George?”

 _So it was Fred who died_ , Draco thought absentmindedly, as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Maybe he could crawl away while they were distracted by Granger…?

He had barely moved an inch before Finnigan brought a foot down heavily on his hand. Draco yelped and tried to pull away, but Finnigan didn’t budge.

“I guess we’ll just have to do this the muggle way,” said twin-Weasley.

“That’s… that’s really not what I meant,” Granger said. “Ron, will you help me out h---“

Weasley cut her off. “Get up.”

“What?” asked Granger.

“Get up,” repeated Weasley, “Seamus, get off him so he can get up.”

Finnigan finally lifted his foot, and Draco stumbled to his feet, clutching his hand, which was pulsating with pain.

“Ron, what are you doing?” asked she-Weasley.

“It’s not fair if we just kick him on the ground, is it?” said Weasley.

“Ron, I don’t think any part of this is f—“ Granger tried, but Weasley interrupted her again. “Would you just shut up for once, Hermione?”

Granger opened her mouth, as if to say something, then closed it into a tight line and stormed off.

“Boy are you going to pay for that later,” said she-Weasley.

“Shut up,” grunted Weasley.

“Look,” Draco started tentatively, because this was turning really bad really fast and maybe he could still talk his way out of it.

Or not, he realised, as twin-Weasley’s fist made contact with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. “You,” twin-Weasley grunted, massaging his knuckles, “don’t get to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit just got real :P


	5. Chapter 5

Draco wasn’t sure what happened next. When it came to brawling like muggles, he had never been much of a fighter. Even if he was, there was five of them and only one of him, and it really hurt too much for him to do much. The voices around him were dimmed by the ringing in his ears and his vision was all flashing lights. He lost count of the blows, the new flowers of pain blooming on his body. Eventually he lost track of time.

“Stop! Stop!”

The voice emerged from somewhere far away, drifting into Draco’s consciousness like a dream.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Distantly, Draco realised that he recognised that voice. It was the voice he wanted to hear the very most and the very least in the world all at once.

“Fucking up a Death Eater,” said someone.

“A Death…? George, the war is over!” shouted Potter. “Voldemort is dead! There are no more fucking Death Eaters!”

“He still has the mark on his arm, doesn’t he?” someone else insisted.

 _If only I could help it_ , Draco thought bitterly.

“So what? I still have the scar on my forehead! What’s your point?” Potter said.

“Harry, these people killed Fred.”

“And Lavender.”

“And Colin.”

Now that the hitting had stopped, for the time being, Draco found himself slowly returning to his body. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. The ground was damp underneath him and he was freezing cold. His left eye was rapidly swelling shut and his mouth was full of blood. He didn’t think he could name a part of his body that didn’t ache. There was a piercing pain in his side and he was pretty sure they had broken a rib.

“Malfoy didn’t kill those people!” Potter was saying. “As far as I know, Malfoy has never killed anyone. Yes, people we love died, but you all know that I’m much more responsible for that than Malfoy is. They died protecting me. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing?” repeated someone, probably one of the Weasleys. “He was still Voldemort’s bitch, wasn’t he?”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” said Potter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, I’ve been the pawn in a game between much more powerful wizards than I. I’ve been the child who was jerked around by someone for their own purposes. So I know how it happens, and I know that you don’t get much of a say in it, in what you do or don’t do. Okay, so for me it was Dumbledore and for him it was Voldemort, but initially it’s the same bloody thing,” Potter said. “Luna, help me out here.”

Draco tried to lift his head and peer past the forest of legs that surrounded him. Lovegood was here, too?

“Harry’s right,” came the reply. “None of you were born knowing what is right and wrong. Your parents taught you, and your friends. You had your parents, so you became you. But if you had his parents, you would have been him.”

“Something like that,” said Potter. “Look, we were just kids. None of us knew what the fuck we were doing. Me included.”

Draco managed to push himself up into a halfway sitting position. A dull, throbbing pain was radiating out from his right wrist. He thought he might have sprained it when he fell.

He looked around, the vision in his one good eye blurry and filled with colourful blotches. The half-circle formation around him was breaking up; it looked like Potter had ploughed right into the middle of it. Twin-Weasley and McLaggen looked like they were ready to kick Potter’s ass next, but the rest of them seemed a bit sheepish. And Potter – Draco couldn’t ever recall seeing Potter so angry. Which was saying a lot, because Potter was furious like 85% of the time.

“Harry, it isn’t—“ Weasley began.

“Honestly, Ron, shut up,” snapped Potter. “You’re better than this. And what the fuck did you say to Hermione?”

A look of horrified realisation crossed over Weasley’s face.

“You better go find her,” said she-Weasley.

“Go with him, Ginny,” Potter said. “Make sure Hermione doesn’t kill him. I’ll sort this out.” Potter gave orders easily, casually, with the air of someone who was used to being obeyed without argument. And they didn’t argue. Both Weasleys took off towards the house.

“As for the rest of you,” Potter said, turning back to Finnigan, McLaggen and the remaining Weasley. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“My brother’s dead, Harry,” said twin-Weasley.

“I know he is, George!” Potter shouted. “You don’t think I go a single day without thinking about that? About all the people who died for me? Fred, Lavender, Colin, Lupin and Tonks, Dobby, Sirius, my parents? They're all gone and it’s my fault and beating the shit out of Malfoy sure as hell isn’t going to make any kind of difference!”

Draco stared at Potter like he was seeing him for the first time. Underneath the anger, he realised, was pain. And grief. Potter had saved the world, and then taken it upon himself to blame himself for every death that occurred in the process. As if the agenda had been his alone. Trust Potter to make himself the centre of the universe. At least he was nothing but consistent. Except that Draco didn’t really feel like that, he realised, not really. He should have been annoyed at Potter being Potter, but instead he felt… sad? Compassionate?

“Here comes Parvati,” said Lovegood, breaking the heavy silence.

Sure enough, one of the Patil twins was approaching across the grass like an oncoming storm.

“Good,” said McLaggen, “she’ll settle this.”

“Damn straight I will,” snarled Patil. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking their grief out on Draco,” said Lovegood absentmindedly. Everyone ignored her.

“Why would you even invite this Slytherin piece of shit, Parvati?” demanded twin-Weasley.

Patil shook her head. “See, this,” she said tautly, “this is what Padma meant when she said we should only invite Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.”

Potter opened his mouth, but Patil held up a hand. “No, Harry, I’m talking now. Honestly, people. My best friend in the whole world is dead exactly because of this shit. Of people thinking that someone isn't a person because of who their parents are or what a bloody hat from the middle ages thought was their most prominent character trait when they were eleven. I invited him because I'm sick of it, because it's never going to change unless we change it. All of you need to seriously reconsider your goddamned priorities and, more to the point, get the fuck out of my yard if you're going to ruin our birthday party.”

“Fine,” spat twin-Weasley and Disapparated.

A mumbled chorus of ‘sorry, Parvati’ and ‘we weren’t thinking, Parvati’ rose up in the remaining crowd. She ignored them and crouched down next to Draco.

“Are you okay?” she asked, hand hovering in the vicinity of his shoulder, like she was uncertain whether she should touch him.

The sound that escaped Draco was something like a hysterical laugh. “No,” he said, “not really, no.”

Patil held out a hand. “Can you stand?”

With some effort, a lot of pain and a considerable amount of support from Patil, Draco managed to pull himself to his feet. He still couldn’t see very well – his other eye was fully swollen shut now – and he felt like he had been run over by a herd of hippogriffs.

“Take a good look at what you’ve done,” said Patil to the others. “I hope you’re proud. Which of you has his wand?”

McLaggen handed it over meekly. Patil passed it on to Draco, who, with some effort, deposited it in his pocket.

“Help me get him in the house, Harry?” said Patil.

“Of course,” said Potter, quickly coming to Draco’s side and offering his shoulder for support. Draco tried his best to ignore the shiver that passed through him as he leaned into Potter and felt the heat of his body so close by. He had slightly more pressing problems to worry about at the moment.

Somehow, held up by Potter and Patil, Draco managed to hobble his way into the house. Patil led them through the crowd, which had reached a sufficient level of intoxication to completely ignore their passing, to a bedroom at the back of the house. The complete lack of personal items suggested that it was a guest room.

“Lie down,” Patil instructed. Draco didn’t argue; his legs felt like jelly.

“I’m not very good at healing spells,” said Patil, once she and Potter had helped Draco into a horizontal position. “I’m going to go get Padma.”

Potter grabbed her arm before she could go. “I can take it from here, Parvati,” he said. “Just go an enjoy your party, yeah?”

Patil looked at him, then at Draco, then back at him, frowning. “Are you sure you two should be alone in a room together?” she asked.

Draco choked. When both Potter and Patil turned to look at him, he feigned a coughing fit – which was agony to his probably-broken rib – and waved at them dismissively.

“I’m the one who broke up the fight,” Potter said, because of course that was what Patil had been talking about, Draco and Potter’s long history of trying to kill each other on regular intervals. Not anything else, because no one knew about that, obviously. The wave of relief that washed over Draco was so strong he even forgot to be in pain for a second.

“Fair enough,” said Patil with a shrug. “Well, if you’re sure… Neville did promise me a dance. And he’s like _hot_ now.”

Potter laughed. “Go,” he said, “Have fun.”

Patil left with a ‘thanks, Harry’ and a concerned glance in Draco’s direction. Once she was gone, Potter turned. For the first time all night, he looked directly at Draco.

“Well then,” said Potter, an infuriating grin playing on his lips. “Alone at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show of hands, anyone surprised that this fic was going to contain Suffering™ for Draco? Cause if you are you don't know me at all :D


	6. Chapter 6

Any gratitude or fondness Draco had been feeling towards Potter on their way inside from the garden quickly faded into irritation.

“Piss off, Potter,” he muttered, turning away.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be telling me to piss off, Malfoy,” said Potter, a hard edge in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Draco lied. In reality, he couldn’t remember ever being in so much pain. He could barely breathe and the smallest movement made him want to throw up. Still, he would rather die than stay here and let Potter… do what, exactly? Draco wasn’t sure. He just wanted to go home and have all of this be over. He had learned his lesson; he would never show his face again in public. “I’m going home.”

“The hell you are,” said Potter.

Draco tried to sit up, but as soon as his head parted with the pillow, the room tilted and started spinning wildly. He collapsed back, scowling. “I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business,” he spat.

Anger flared in Potter’s eyes, so intense that Draco flinched. It was easy to forget because he was such a prat, but in moments like this, when Potter’s hands were clenched into fists, his hair wild and eyes flaming, Draco was forced to remember that this was the man who defeated the Dark Lord. Frankly, it was frightening.

“God, Malfoy,” Potter said, “would it kill you to act like a bloody human being for once in your life?”

“Would it kill you to leave me the hell alone?” Draco retorted. _Please don’t leave_ , he found himself thinking even as he said it. He didn’t want help from Potter, but he desperately needed help, that much was clear.

Potter laughed a hard, bitter laugh. “You know, I’m such an idiot.”

“No argument from me,” Draco said, more out of habit than anything, and then instantly regretted it.

Potter ignored him, shaking his head and pacing the room, clearly well into monologue headspace. “I really thought it would be different. I thought you would have changed. I keep thinking you’re going to change.”

Draco had no idea what to say to that. He was more exhausted by the minute and what Potter was saying seemed to be making less and less sense.

Potter stopped abruptly and turned to look at Draco, a pained expression distorting his face, like he was the one that had gotten the living hell beat out of him. “I thought we stopped this hating each other thing back in Hogwarts,” he said quietly.

“We did,” Draco said, “for a while. If only it could have lasted.”

“It would have lasted!” Potter exclaimed. “It would have lasted, if you just—“

“If I just what?” Draco interrupted. “Dated you? Honestly, Potter. After all the fucked-up shit you’ve been through, how can you be so unbelievably naïve?”

This had been the problem from the start. Potter simply refused to believe that whatever they felt, it just couldn’t happen. He refused to face the truth of it, of how utterly unspeakable any sort of relationship between the two of them would be. Maybe not getting what he wanted was a foreign concept to Golden Boy Potter, but Draco was well versed in it. Which forced him to be the bad guy, to point out the obvious – ultimately, to reject Potter. He would have hoped that the years that had passed since Hogwarts would have been enough for Potter to grow the hell up and come to terms with reality, but apparently not.

“Maybe I’m naïve,” said Potter tautly, “but you’re a fucking coward! That’s all you’ve ever been.”

“I’d rather be a coward than a moron,” Draco snapped.

They glared at each other for a while in silence. Gradually, the hardness faded from Potter’s expression, replaced with what Draco could only assume was sadness.

“Why can’t you just let me be nice to you?” Potter asked softly.

Draco looked away, suddenly unwilling to face the intensity of Potter’s gaze. He was tired and everything hurt and the bed was soft. All he wanted was to sink into the pillows and go to sleep.

“Stay with me, Draco,” Potter said, quietly. “You can’t go to sleep if you have a concussion.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a hero complex, Potter?” Draco muttered sleepily.

“A number of people, actually,” said Potter. Draco heard him step closer and then felt him place a hand on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, but it still made Draco wince.

“I have a confession to make,” Potter said. “I’m actually rubbish at healing spells.”

With some effort, Draco looked up at him. “Then why the fuck did you spend Patil away?” he asked.

Potter at least had the decency to look apologetic. “I wanted to talk to you,” he admitted.

Draco’s laugh was bordering on hysteria. “You think this was the best time for that?”

Potter shrugged. “Well, I figured, since you can’t get away…” he said, grinning sheepishly.

“How the fuck were you not in Slytherin?” Draco wondered out loud.

“That’s what the hat told me,” Potter said, laughing.

Draco decided he would figure that one out some other time. Right now, he was too tired and in too much pain. His head felt foggy. He tried to prod at his battered face, but as soon as he lifted his hand, a stab of pain travelled up his arm. “Fuck,” he said wearily. “I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” said Potter. Before Draco could find the words to protest, he went on, “I should go get Hermione.”

Draco surprised both of them by fast his hand moved. He grabbed Potter by the wrist, holding him in place. “No. Don’t.”

Potter looked confused but, surprisingly, didn’t try to get his hand free. “Why not?”

“Would you want people who hate you to see you like this?” Draco asked.

“Hermione doesn’t—“ Potter tried to say, but Draco cut him off.

“Yes, she does. They all do. You saw what they did.”

Potter looked like he was going to argue and then decided against it.

“Can’t argue, can you?” Draco said. “And I guess I can’t blame them, either.”

He released Potter’s wrist and, gritting his teeth with the effort, pulled back his sleeve to uncover the Mark. It looked a bit faded, and if you looked closely, you could see the scars crisscrossing across it from Draco’s various removal attempts, but it was undoubtedly there.

“No one is ever going to forget this,” he said quietly. “I don’t expect then to.”

Potter leaned forward slightly. Slowly, cautiously, he brushed his fingers against Draco’s wrist, tracing the Mark. Draco was helpless against the shudder that ran through his body.

“If I can look past it,” said Potter, “so can everyone else.”

Draco scoffed. “Not everyone is so goddamn noble, Potter.”

“Well, they fucking should be!” Potter declared.

Draco would have laughed, but all of a sudden Potter’s hand moved, closing around his fingers, squeezing gently. Draco looked up at Potter, hoping his expression would convey the question he couldn’t seem to find the words for.

“Listen to me,” said Potter, holding his gaze. “It isn’t your fault.”

Draco shook his head painfully. “I can’t do this right now, Potter,” he said.

Potter stopped to look at Draco, like he had only just noticed the state he was in. “Right,” he said, “sorry.”

As Potter continued to stare at him, Draco suddenly felt infinitely self-conscious. He ran his good hand through his hair to smooth it down, picking out a few leaves and pieces of grass. There was blood on the front of his robes. His dress robes, the only ones he still had. Well, it wasn’t like he was going to go to any parties after this anyway. He tried not to even think about what his face must look like; his eye was throbbing painfully and his bottom lip was split and swollen.

Potter pulled out his wand, then hesitated. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said.

Draco offered up his sprained wrist, which appeared to have swollen to half its normal size. “ _Ferula_ for bandages,” he advised.

Potter rolled his eyes. “I said I wasn’t good at healing spells, not that I was an idiot.”

“But you are an idiot,” Draco pointed out.

“Shut up and sit still while I fix your face,” said Potter, although he sounded more amused than angry.

In the end Potter wasn’t nearly as bad at healing as he had made himself out to be – typical of Potter, being good even at the things he was bad at. By the time he was done, Draco didn’t quite feel good as new, but he could see with both eyes again and every inhale no longer felt like being stabbed in the kidney.

Only when Potter put his wand away and took a step back to look at him did Draco notice the heavy silence that had settled into the room. The noise of the party, music and all, was just a distant din. No longer distracted by the pain, Draco was suddenly acutely aware how alone they were. He swallowed, looking down at his hands and distractedly picking at the dried blood on his cuticles.

Of all the stupid things Draco had done tonight, letting Patil leave them alone was probably the stupidest. Would it have been beyond humiliating to be patched up by one of the twins at their birthday party? Sure, but this was so much worse. The silence was practically buzzing with words left unsaid, with New Year’s and their encounter in the shop and the fact that Potter seemed unable to stop saving Draco, and Draco seemed equally unable to find himself in need of saving. It was embarrassing.

Distracted by his thoughts, Draco didn’t realise how close Potter was standing before he felt the soft brush of fingers against his hair. A shiver ran down his spine and he flinched away from the touch. He looked up just in time to see Potter pull his hand back like he had been burned.

“Sorry,” Potter said, opening his palm to show Draco the leaf he had pulled out of his hair. “It was bugging me.”

Slowly, Draco reached over and picked the leaf out of Potter’s hand. Somehow, his fingers lingered, ending up tracing the lines of Potter’s palm. When he finally tried to pull away, Potter’s hand closed around his. His skin felt impossibly warm.

Draco looked up, meeting Potter’s eyes. They were kind behind his glasses, and soft, and so very green. A moment stretched into an eternity and Draco tried to hear himself think over how hard his heart was beating all of a sudden. A voice in the back of his head was insisting that everything about this was a disaster.

“I should go home,” Draco said. Before he had even finished the sentence, he was pulling Potter into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iiiiiii am terrible at writing anything other than angst I'm sorry


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Fuck_ , Potter.”

Draco didn’t want to pull away, but he was hopelessly out of breath, so he let his head fall back against the pillows. Potter, straddling him, took this as an opportunity to plant little kisses along his jaw and down his neck.

“Are we _still_ not on first-name basis?” Potter asked, his breathless laugh tickling Draco’s jaw.

“What’s your obsession with first names?” Draco asked. After a split-second’s hesitation, he added, “Harry?”

Potter stopped and sat up. “I guess I’m looking for evidence that you really don’t hate me,” he said seriously.

Draco propped himself up on his elbows so he could see Potter’s face. His cheeks were flushed and his hair even messier than usual where Draco’s fingers had twisted into it. His palms rested flat against Draco’s chest, warm even through his clothes.

“It’s a good thing you’re so famous,” Draco said, “because you’re unbelievably thick.”

“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Potter retorted, “because you have a shit personality.”

Draco knew in the back of his mind that he ought to be offended, but he was far too preoccupied by the fact that Potter had just referred to him as ‘pretty’. Potter seemed to come to the same realisation, because he flushed, looking away.

Trying not to think too hard about what he was doing in case he came to his senses, Draco reached up and brushed Potter’s hair out of his face, letting his thumb linger, tracing circles against the soft skin of Potter’s cheek. Potter looked back at him, his expression solemn and entirely unreadable. Draco snaked his hand to the back of Potter’s head and pulled him down into a slow, thoughtful kiss.

All of Draco’s senses were filled with Potter, his mind overwhelmed by how strange this was, how it felt surreal but also like he was properly alive for the first time in his life. Which is why he didn’t even hear the door open, didn’t realise anything was wrong, until the soft sound of a throat being cleared made Potter jerk backwards and scamper off of Draco like he had suddenly realised he was snogging a Dementor.

It was like flying up to the clouds only to realise your broomstick had disappeared from underneath you, like having the most beautiful of dreams and waking up to find your bed on fire. Draco’s thoughts bypassed any coherent concerns and spiralled straight into wordless, blind panic. His breath was caught somewhere halfway down his throat and his entire body was rigid with terror. Still he forced himself to turn his head to look at the door.

“Oh, hey, Luna,” said Potter behind him, voice heavy with relief. “It’s just you.”

“I came to see if you needed help,” Lovegood said. She stood in the doorway casually, as if there was nothing extraordinary about the situation. “But looks like you don’t.”

Potter laughed nervously. “Thanks, we’re fine,” he said.

“I didn’t know you two were an item,” Lovegood said conversationally.

“We’re hardly and item,” said Potter, at the same time as Draco managed to locate his vocal chords and muttered, “I have to go.”

Both Potter and Lovegood turned their attention to Draco, but he couldn’t look at either of them. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear Potter when he asked, “What? Why?”

Draco almost laughed at the question. For a moment he had allowed himself to forget; once again he had taken one look at Potter and fallen for his ridiculous reassurances. Yet again Potter had managed to convince him that this wasn’t the disaster that it was, and he hadn’t even had to say it. Draco was so fucking weak it was almost funny. _And now everyone will know_. It was the one thought that managed to get through the incoherent screaming that filled his head.

“He doesn’t look well, Harry,” observed Lovegood.

Draco didn’t feel well. In fact, he felt like he was about to throw up. He patted over his pockets, frantically searching for his wand. As if leaving now would somehow save him.

“Hey.” Potter tried to place a hand on Draco’s arm, but he flinched, shying away from the touch. Why did Potter have to be such an idiot? Didn’t he realise he was making everything infinitely worse?

“Malfoy, relax. Luna isn’t going to tell anyone. It’s fine,” Potter said, from somewhere far away, solidifying his status as a moron.

“No,” said Draco hoarsely, “it’s not.” He finally managed to locate his wand. Before anyone could say another word, he bounced to his feet and Apparated home.

Draco was used to the slight nausea that even now accompanied Apparition, but this time it was so intense that for a moment he was sure he would be sick. His knees felt weak and the room span wildly around him, forcing him to lean heavily into the nearest wall to avoid losing his balance. He couldn’t understand why he was so dizzy but he was vaguely aware that he wasn’t breathing right. He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the smooth surface of wallpaper, waiting for the spinning to pass.

Wait a minute – wallpaper?

Nowhere in Draco’s flat did he have wallpaper this nice. Or – he shifted his feet – a carpet this thick. Where the hell had he Apparated?

Carefully, almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Through the blur of tears – when did he start crying? – Draco identified his bedroom. Not the cramped room with the tiny window and the bed with the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, but his childhood bedroom in the Manor, with a soft carpet and rich moss green drapes and a four-poster bed that had always felt too big for just one person. For a moment Draco couldn’t wrap his mind around how he had ended up here. Then he realised: all he had thought was _home_. A word that had never really applied to his tiny flat.

That being said, this was not a good place for him to be right now. He was only barely keeping it together as it was, and if he had to explain the events of the night to his mother… Draco shuddered at the thought. Besides, a quick glance on the full-length mirror on the door of his wardrobe informed him that he looked even more dishevelled than he felt. His hair was a mess, his robes were bloody and torn and his face was scattered with distinct bruises. If Narcissa were to see him like this, the shock would most likely kill her.

Draco had to go home, to his actual flat. Which meant he had to… what did he have to do? He looked down at his hands, both of which had blood on them, one of which was still holding his wand. Wand. Right. He needed to Apparate. Which required him to concentrate, and think and… what exactly?

Draco struggled to focus, most of his thoughts still occupied with the sheer horror of being caught with Potter. He was so tired. He just wanted to go to sleep. And his bed was right there. Huge, soft, inviting. Maybe he would take a little nap. That couldn’t hurt. His mother had no reason to come into his bedroom. The Manor was huge. He would just sleep for a little bit and she would never even know he was here.

The prospect of sleep gave him a boost of energy, and he made his way to the bed, toeing his shoes off as he went. When he lived here, he would never have dreamed of leaving his shoes in the middle of the floor. He would move them when he woke up, Draco thought drowsily, as he set his wand on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. He didn’t even think about how dirty his robes were and the stains they would leave on the sheets. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, you thought it would be that simple? Nuh-uh, not with someone as Extra™ as Draco :D


	8. Chapter 8

Draco woke in a cold sweat from some nightmare that escaped him as soon as he opened his eyes. The sheets were tangled around his legs like a Devil’s Snare and there wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache. He squinted against the grey morning light, trying to understand where he was and why he had slept fully dressed.

Letting his eyes wander the half-lit room, Draco realised he was at home. There was a fine layer of dust on everything – of course, they didn’t have a house elf any more – but this was definitely his room. Slowly, the events of the past night started trickling in. The moronic idea of going to this party. Twin-Weasley and his posse. Draco winced at the all-too-vivid memory of kicks making contact with his ribcage. His hand travelled absently over the half-healed bruises on his face, then drifted to his lips as he thought of Potter…

That thought was quickly washed away by a fresh, refreshing wave of chilling horror as he remembered how the evening had ended. How many people knew by now? Everyone Draco’s age who was anyone had been at the Patils’ last night. It could be in the _Daily Prophet_ by now. Potter could barely take a shit without it making the front page, which meant that a story like this… Draco was overcome by the sudden and violent urge to tear his skin off.

Only when he heard the all-too familiar sound of approaching footsteps did Draco remember that he was only ever supposed to take a short nap here. It was early, but it was definitely morning, which meant that he had approximately two minutes to get out before–

The door flew open and Narcissa burst into the room, in her dressing gown and slippers. “Draco? Draco?”

Draco swallowed down a long string of expletives. “Morning, mother,” he said.

Narcissa gasped in horror, covering her mouth. “My poor Draco, what have they done to you?”

Draco winced. He didn’t really even want to know what he looked like right now. And he certainly hadn’t wanted his mother to know.

It was too late for that, of course. Before he could finish muttering “I’m fine”, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, making him wince with pain as she hugged him, stroking his bruised face, running her fingers through his tangled hair. Draco pushed her away and, with some effort, held her at arm’s length.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Narcissa asked. “You need to go to St. Mungo.”

“No I don’t,” said Draco bluntly, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then I’ll send for a Healer,” his mother said decisively.

Draco closed his eyes and prayed for patience, lest he strangle his own mother. “No you won’t.”

Somehow Narcissa managed to wriggle free and resume petting Draco’s hair. “Look at you, Draco. You’re hurt.”

In a feeble attempt at deflection, Draco asked, “How did you even know I was here?”

“I woke up to an owl from the Patils,” said Narcissa. If there was one thing Draco hated it was the way his mother’s voice wavered when she was about to cry. It was no wonder really, that his father had always told him off for crying – Narcissa wept enough for the whole family. “They wrote to apologise. Did they do this, Draco?”

“What?” asked Draco. “You think two girls half a foot shorter than me did this?” He didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Who then?” his mother demanded.

“Does it matter?” Draco snapped.

“Of course it does!” Narcissa said shrilly. “They need to be arrested! Locked up!”

Draco raised his eyebrows, ignoring the uncomfortable tautness over his black eye. “What, with father?”

His mother made an affronted noise. “Draco! You know your father was wrongfully convicted.” There was a strong tone of reprimand in her voice, like he was a child who had been caught stealing biscuits. Draco couldn’t help the anger that bubbled up inside him.

“Was he?” Draco asked. “Because as I recall, he killed people.”

“Mudbloods, traitors,” Narcissa said dismissively.

“Traitors to whom?” Draco snapped. “Honestly, mother. After everything _he_ did to us, everything he forced me to do, how can you still buy into this blood crap? How can you still be loyal to him?”

“I was never loyal to _him_ ,” hissed Narcissa, her eyes narrowing. “Only to your father. Everything I’ve done I’ve done to protect you.”

“Well, guess what?” Now that Draco had started, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It had always been like this, his mother knew how to set him off like no one else, even Potter. “In case you haven’t noticed, things have changed and _this_ —“ he pulled up his sleeve pointedly “—is what constitutes a traitor.”

“The Dark Lord may be gone,” Narcissa said furiously, “and he may have been insane, but we were never in the wrong, Draco. The purity of magic blood is what society depends on, what we have always relied on, lest we become like the–“

“ _Shut up_!” Draco almost startled himself with the force of his voice. He disentangled himself from the sheets and stood, grabbing his wand from the nightstand. “When will you wake the fuck up? You don’t understand anything! You live in this, this, childish fantasy that father will come back, that somehow he’ll make all of this go away, that somehow going to a fucking birthday party leads to a future where I’ll be the fucking Minister of Magic. All of that is gone! I work in a bloody shop, and that’s all I’ll ever do! Why can’t you understand that we’re nothing now?”

“Don’t you talk to me like that!” his mother shouted, jumping to her feet. “You have no right!”

“I think I fucking do!” Draco shouted back, stomping over to his shoes and pulling them back on. “You see these bruises on my face? Doesn’t matter who threw the punches, because you did this! You did it by raising me to think that some people were less human than others, by forcing me to be a part of your fucking cult, by exposing me to a homicidal psychopath since I was a _child_. And you did it by forcing me to go to that stupid bloody party because you fucking refuse to see the world for what it is. I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of you. You don’t understand anything and you never have.”

Narcissa opened her mouth and closed it again, seeming to teeter between outrage and injury. She looked genuinely stricken, and for a moment Draco felt a flicker of guilt. But his anger was still burning too hot, so he said nothing, took what he was sure would be his last look ever at his childhood home, and Apparated.

Draco’s flat felt especially tiny and constricting after the Manor. He wanted desperately to get out of it as soon as he got there, but even if he didn’t look like he had decided to give the Whomping Willow a hug, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. So he stripped out of his robes, every movement followed by a new blossom of pain in some part of his body, and left them in a pile on the floor – they were ruined anyway.

Avoiding the tiny bathroom mirror, Draco stepped into the shower and turned the water on, as hot as it would go. He was cold and dirty and everything ached. He closed his eyes and let the water pour over him. If it didn’t actually help with his injuries, at least it was scalding enough to distract him from them.

Resting his forehead against the tiled wall, Draco made the mistake of opening his eyes, his gaze falling on the Mark, dark against his bruised skin. For the umpteenth time he was struck with the urge to claw at it, dig his nails into it and tear it out. But, of course, that wouldn’t work. He had tried cutting, burning, any number of jinxes and charms, but he had never had any real hope of undoing a spell cast by the Dark Lord. He was stuck with the Mark for life, unless he jinxed his arm off at the elbow. Maybe it served him right to have it there, to remind him who he really was. Because whatever he had said to his mother, this was all he had ever been.

The fact was, Draco realised, that he had completely deserved the beating he had gotten. Everything they had said about him was true. So many people were dead and he had been a part of it, so he was responsible. Not in the way that Potter thought he was responsible – because honestly, did Potter really think there wouldn’t have been a second war without him? – but in a real way. He might as well have killed them himself.

Draco shut off the water. He was going to reach for his towel, but found that he just didn’t have the energy. He stared at the droplets of water on a cracked tile. He blinked, slowly. His mind felt blank and heavy.

Draco stood there for a long time. Long enough to shiver as the heat of the shower evaporated, to feel cold and weary to his bones. When he finally stepped out, he no longer needed the towel, because he was already dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unresolved anger towards my mother? Who, me? Hahhahah I would never apply that to fanfiction..........


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a random and totally irrelevant filler OC that I basically pulled out of my butt. Sorry about that.

“You look like death,” Layton commented, as he tore open a box of brand new copies of _Hogwarts: A History_.

Draco felt like death.

He really should have eaten something before work. As a matter of fact, he really should have eaten something in the past three days. But it had been enough of a struggle to get out of bed, to find some clean clothes to wear, to drag himself to the shop. And it was doubtful if there was anything edible in his flat in any case. Draco couldn’t remember when he had last shopped for groceries.

Apparently, it was Wednesday now, three days since the Patils’ party. Draco knew this because he had received a Howler last night from the manager, reminding him rather pointedly that he had missed two days of work, and should he like to continue working at the shop, he had better not make it a third.

At first, Draco couldn’t believe it had been two days. Then, he couldn’t believe it all had happened only two days ago. Since he got home from the Manor, time appeared to have stopped working. Minutes stretched into hours and days passed in the blink of an eye, and all Draco did was lie in bed and stare at the crack in the ceiling. It could have been two hours. It could have been a week. All things considered, maybe two days was believable enough.

Draco hauled the box of star charts onto the counter, arms trembling with the effort. It wasn’t even that heavy, but all his limbs felt sluggish and weak. He should have had some coffee, at least.

He glanced at Layton, who was shelving now, but didn’t say anything. Sure, he was hungry and sore and tired to the bone, but he wasn’t about to discuss it with Layton. Or with anyone, for that matter. If he had to be miserable, at least he could have the dignity to do it in private.

“Does it hurt?” asked Layton conversationally.

Draco stopped trying to peel the tape off the box – he really couldn’t be bothered to go get his wand from the register – and turned to look at Layton, frowning. “What?”

Layton looked at him like he had just asked if a broom was necessary for Quidditch. “You know,” he said, gesturing at his face, “your face?”

Right, of course. Because he had neglected to look in the mirror for several days, (something which would have been quite unheard of in his younger years,) Draco had all but forgotten about the bruises that must still be quite visible against his pale complexion. Thanks to Potter’s haphazard healing efforts, there wasn’t much pain, but he must still look like he had the living shit kicked out of him. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

“I heard what happened,” Layton continued, flattening the now empty box.

Draco’s heart stopped. He had expected the news to spread, yes, but Layton? Layton was about as far out of the loop as anyone. If he knew, so did the whole wizarding world. ‘ _Luna won’t tell anyone’ my ass_ , he thought fiercely. Why did Potter have to be so fucking naïve? Now they were both ruined, which should have meant something for Potter, since he actually had a reputation to destroy.

“Everyone’s talking about it. It was even in the paper,” said Layton, as he walked back to the register. “Merlin knows how Skeeter found out so quickly.”

Draco wanted to strangle him for sounding so casual. It wasn’t as if they were friends, Layton was two decades his senior and interested in little else but books, but at least he could have had the courtesy of not talking about Draco’s life being ruined like it was small talk.

“Didn’t say who did it, though.” It was a statement, but the way Layton said it made it out to be a question.

Draco blinked. He turned around slowly. “Who did what?” he asked.

Layton frowned. “Who messed up your face, obviously,” he said.

The wave of relief that washed over Draco was so intense it nearly knocked him over. Of course. The breaking news story that was sweeping the nation wasn’t the great Harry Potter’s romantic encounter with a known Death Eater. Potter had been right, because Potter was always right and because he had actual friends who actually cared about him. Somehow, all anyone knew was that someone or someones had beat Draco up at the Patils’ party. For a moment Draco almost felt grateful towards twin-Weasley and the others.

“Right, of course,” Draco said distantly, trying to refocus on the conversation he was apparently having with Layton.

“What did you think we were talking about?” Layton asked.

“Nothing,” Draco said quickly. He fumbled with the display of maps and charts and sent a landslide of paper across the floor. With a sigh, he bent down to pick them up.

Layton ambled over to help. “So,” he said, “who was it, then?”

“Does it matter?” replied Draco curtly. As the initial relief faded, it was gradually replaced by irritation. First, he had no interest whatsoever in having this conversation, with Layton or with anyone. Second, although it was much preferable to the alternative, the story of getting his ass kicked by a bunch of Gryffindors was not one he particularly wanted the world to know. In truth, he didn’t really want any kind of story of himself making the rounds, and certainly not one that managed to simultaneously paint him as a villain and weak and helpless victim.

“Just curious,” said Layton with a shrug. He placed the last star chart on the display and straightened up. “I’m gonna go do inventory on the Miscellaneous section,” he announced, and wandered off.

Draco rubbed his temples. He had only been at work for just over an hour, and he already had a headache. He contemplated asking Layton to cover for him so he could go get something to eat, but decided it wasn’t worth the conversation. He’d eat when his shift ended.

The bell jingled, indicating the entrance of a customer. Draco tried to arrange his face into some semblance of a obliging smile, but customer service was never his forte, and today was worse than usual. He settled for a blank, hopefully neutral expression. But even that failed him when he saw who had just entered the shop.

“Hey, Draco,” Potter said quietly. He hovered just inside the door, as if deliberating whether or not to approach the counter.

“Potter,” Draco said stupidly. He was thinking about so many things at once that it was impossible to focus on any one thing for long enough to construct a sentence. There were a million things he ought to say and even more that he could not say under any circumstances, and at the moment it was very difficult to tell the difference.

“You look like shit,” said Potter. Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to Draco, who barely resisted the urge to bolt.

“Did you come all the way here to insult me?” Draco asked, although he may well have sounded more nervous than angry.

“No,” said Potter seriously. The way he was looking at Draco was way too intense, yet Draco couldn’t bring himself to look away. He felt trapped.

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Draco knew he was being rude, but maybe if he was blunt enough, it would inspire Potter to leave him alone. Besides, didn’t being rude to Potter use to be his goal, and not something to be avoided? Sure, Potter had saved his life a couple of times since then, and there was the business with all that snogging, but still.

Potter reached over the counter and brushed his fingers along the bruises on Draco’s cheekbone. “Are you alright?”

Everything went away at the touch of Potter’s hand. All right, maybe Draco’s life was a mess and his parents hated him and he had been beaten up and caught kissing Potter. But all of that faded back, and suddenly the only thing that mattered was the memory of Potter’s body pressed against him, of his fingers in his hair, of how their lips met.

There was a distant rustle of paper as Layton leafed through a book. Draco made a split-second decision. He grabbed Potter by the wrist and practically dragged him into the back room.

“What are you--?” Potter tried to ask, but Draco answered him by pressing him into a stack of boxes and crushing their mouths together, desperately wanting to only feel this, and nothing else, to keep the bad things at bay, even just for a moment.

Potter caught on quickly. He leaned into the kiss and wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer. The boxes teetered dangerously. Draco wouldn’t have cared if they fell on them and killed him, but Potter seemed keen on living. He gently pushed Draco back until his back was against the back room door, never breaking the kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

Eventually, Draco had to pull away for air; it was either that or pass out. He took it as an opportunity to open his eyes and look at Potter, who was just about the most heart-wrenchingly perfect thing he’d ever seen, all flushed cheeks and messy hair, glasses slightly askew.

“I never know where the hell I am with you,” Potter said earnestly.

Draco leaned his head on Potter’s shoulder and hugged him tight. “That makes two of us,” he confessed into Potter’s neck.

Potter laughed softly. “Do you still want to know why I came here?”

Draco looked up at him and placed a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. “You mean it wasn’t for this?”

“Well, I hoped, but…” Potter grinned.

“What is it, then?” Draco asked. An uncomfortable knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach made its presence known, but he did his best to ignore it.

“I have a surprise for you,” Potter announced.

Draco’s heart sank, and the knot tightened. “I don’t like surprises,” he said.

“Well, be prepared to like this one,” Potter said easily, seemingly oblivious to Draco’s misgivings. Draco reminded himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised; Potter had always been about as observant as a brick wall, especially when he was focused on some plan he had fathomed, which was practically always.

“I thought of it because of something you said on New Year’s,” Potter went on.

Draco was about to snap ‘Merlin’s beard, Potter, do you ever listen to anyone but yourself?’ when the implication of what Potter had said reached him and the words died on his lips. “Wait,” he stammered, “you–you remember what happened?”

Potter gave him a Look. “You really were pissed out of your mind.”

“Answer the question, Potter,” said Draco tautly. “Do. You. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. I was barely even drunk,” Potter said. He sounded amused and Draco felt a bit like strangling him. This was so incredibly far from funny.

“You really don’t remember anything?” Potter asked, like he found it hard to believe. “Because that would explain a number of things.”

 _Fucking brilliant_. Clearly, something had happened and Potter knew and he didn’t. Suddenly Draco was furious. He was so sick of this, of never knowing what was going on, of Potter always being in charge, of always having to go along with whatever Potter wanted.

Fuelled by a lifetime of hatred towards Potter, Draco shoved him away, slamming him into a shelf. “Tell me everything,” he hissed. “Word. For. Word.”

Potter just rolled his eyes. “Christ, Malfoy, it was months ago.”

Potter’s expression softened and he placed his hand on Draco’s arm. Draco felt his anger deflate. How could he ever hope to intimidate Potter? Potter, who was a hero, who had defeated the Dark Lord before he could talk? And what was Draco? Some useless waste of space who constantly needed to be saved from himself. Potter reached up and brushed a strand away from Draco’s face and suddenly he was fighting back tears.

“I’ll tell you,” Potter said gently. “Just calm down.”

Draco nodded wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak.

“You remember snogging me outside the bar?” asked Potter, and Draco nodded again. “Okay, after that you brought me back to your flat. At first we were kissing but then, well, you started crying.”

Draco felt sick. It was even worse than he could have imagined. He was pathetic beyond all imagination. He turned away, appalled that Potter had known this about him all this time.

“Hey,” Potter said, grabbing Draco’s arm. “It’s okay. It’s not that bad. It was… fine.”

Draco shook himself free. “Fine?” he said shrilly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Do you want to hear this or not?” asked Potter, less gently.

Draco forced himself to turn back around, because however bad it was, he was better of knowing all of it. “Fine.”

“So,” Potter continued, “I asked you what was wrong and I think you said something along the lines of ‘everything’.”

Draco had a horrifying flashback of sobbing helplessly in Potter’s arms, detailing all the ways in which life had failed him. “I remember,” he said weakly.

Potter looked relieved. “Okay. Good.”

There was a silence. Potter shuffled awkwardly. Draco couldn’t bring himself to look at him, wondering if he wanted to know the rest. But he had to know, of course he did, or it would haunt him for the rest of his life. “And then what?”

“I told you some things, too,” Potter said vaguely.

“What things?” Draco prompted.

Potter looked uncomfortable. “It was sort of a moment, you know. I don’t really want to repeat that stuff like this…”

“Potter,” Draco said sternly.

“Fine, fine,” Potter sighed. He spoke quickly, staring intensely at the floor. “I told you how my life hasn’t exactly gone like I thought it would, either. The war’s supposed to be over and Voldermort is dead, but it doesn’t really feel like it, like I’m safe, you know? There’s the dreams… I don’t sleep well. And everyone in the world seems to want something of me and people keep telling me I’ll do great things even though I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m supposed to do now, because nothing I do really feels right. Ron and Hermione are all domestic bliss and I don’t know how to talk to them about any of it and I feel like I’m lying to everyone because Ginny is the only one who even knows I’m bi.”

Potter’s voice wavered towards the end and he stopped to clear his throat. Almost automatically, Draco reached over and took his hand, squeezing softly. There was something strangely reassuring in knowing that Potter was struggling, too. Of course Draco had thought it, but he hadn’t really believed it; it had been more of bitter wishful thinking. At the same time Draco hated it, hated hearing the vulnerability in Potter’s voice, hated thinking that he was in pain. He had seen a glimpse of that pain at the party and here it was again, and Draco found himself wanting nothing more than to make it go away somehow.

“You’re going to have to get me drunk if you want anything more than that,” said Potter with a nervous laugh.

“I thought you said you weren’t drunk,” Draco pointed out absentmindedly.

“I was a bit drunk,” Potter admitted.

Draco knew he should have said something, but he couldn’t think of a way to express everything going through his mind without it sounding horribly hollow. So he settled for the next best thing, pulling Potter close and placing a soft kiss on his brow.

“Anyway, in the end we just fell asleep,” Potter concluded his account of the first night of the year.

Something poked at Draco’s memory. “In the morning, why did you ask if we…?”

Potter flushed. “You woke me up. I was disoriented,” he said defensively.

“Have I ever told you that you’re a shit liar?” asked Draco.

“I’m sure you’ve pointed out all my flaws at one time or another,” Potter replied sharply.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it doesn’t come close to how pathetic I am,” Draco said.

“You’re not pathetic,” said Potter. “But fine. I… had a dream. When I first woke up, I wasn’t sure which parts were real.”

Draco’s face felt hot all of a sudden. This would have been a perfect opportunity to regain some dignity by making fun of Potter, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would have felt a bit dishonest since it wasn’t like he hadn’t been there. Plenty of times.

“Anyway,” Potter said, evidently eager to change the subject. “The whole point of this was to tell you about your dad.”

Draco frowned, immediately feeling his mood plummet. Thinking of his father was less than ideal in his current circumstances; he would be better off dead should Lucius ever discover that Draco had so much as thought about kissing Harry Potter. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“That was one of the things you talked about,” Potter explained. “How he was in Azkaban and how hard it was for your family. I wanted to help.”

 _Of course_ , Draco thought. Because Potter could not hear about a problem without fixing it. He was Harry Potter, after all. And naturally that meant that just as Draco had began to think that the universe was giving him a break for once, everything was yet again blowing up in his face. “What have you done?” he demanded.

“I filed a request to have him pardoned,” Potter said triumphantly, like it was the greatest thing he had ever done.

“You _what_?” Draco was so livid he could barely get the words out through his teeth. Potter was unbelievable. Every time Draco thought he couldn’t possibly get any more egotistic, he managed to one-up himself. Everything was about Potter, so it obviously hadn’t even crossed his mind that this might be a bad idea, not some grand heroic gesture but a life-ruining disaster. Draco was beyond furious; if he were to cast the Cruciatus Curse on Potter now, he had no doubt it would work. But underneath the rage was an ocean of fear, vast and roiling.

It wasn’t as if Draco _wanted_ his father to be locked up. That would have been beyond horrible, selfish and cruel. But the idea of Lucius returning, of passing judgement on the mess Draco’s life had turned into… it was almost unbearable. He would try to control everything, like he always did, and he certainly wouldn’t fail to point out what a failure, what a disappointment Draco was. He had heard it so many times in his life that he almost didn’t need his father there to tell him – all he had to do was close his eyes. Even if everything had gone pear-shaped since the war, at least Draco had been able to breathe free, knowing for the first time in his life that no one was looking over his shoulder, judging his every move.

“I’m going to have him pardoned,” Potter repeated, like he himself was the judge who would make the decision. “Well, I have to admit Hermione helped me quite a lot, but still. I promise you, as long as we both testify on his behalf, he’ll be out of there before you know it.”

In the moment it didn’t even matter to Draco that Potter was willing to speak on Lucius Malfoy’s behalf despite all the times he had tried to kill Potter. “You are bloody unbelievable.”

Potter frowned. “Wait, are you _mad_ at me?”

Draco almost laughed. He didn’t understand how he kept forgetting how thick Potter really was.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Potter said.

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, you really don’t understand anything, do you?” Draco snarled.

“Well, I do understand that if I could get my dad back, I would,” said Potter, half defensive, half offended.

“Well, your dad isn’t Lucius Malfoy!” Draco snapped.

“No,” said Potter icily, “my dad is dead.”

A small twinge of regret fought through to Draco’s consciousness but he pushed it away. There was only so many times Potter could get away with using the ‘my parents are dead’ card.

“But I guess you’re right, I must be bloody stupid,” Potter ranted. “Serves me right for trying to do something nice for you. All you’ll ever be is a spoiled, selfish brat.”

He pushed past Draco with unnecessary force, storming out into the shop. Draco tried to follow him, because he was nowhere near done with this argument, but as soon as he made it out of the back room, he was ambushed by a harassed-looking man with three small children.

“Excuse me, do you have a copy of the Hogwarts book list for first years? Aisha lost hers and can’t remember what potions book she’s supposed to get,” the man said wearily, as the eldest of the children stared guiltily at the floor.

Draco glanced wistfully at the door, just in time to see it swing shut behind Potter. It wasn’t, he had to admit, worth losing his job over.

“Of course, sir,” he said as politely as he could muster. “Right this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that was fun to write. I live for the arguments lol. Also, be prepared, I have quite a bit of plot planned out now, so it's looking like this is going to be a pretty long fic :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: more original side characters in this one, out of necessity.

“You should have worn the other robes,” Narcissa hissed in his ear.

 _Wonderful_ , thought Draco, _thank you so much for the kind words of encouragement, mother_. But there was no time to so much as glare at her, not to mention how bad it would have looked. Here, with all these eyes on them, the Malfoys had to be a picture perfect family and nothing less.

It was only when the owl from the Ministry had arrived that Draco realised that this would be the worst part. It wasn’t bad enough that his father would likely be back, or that he would likely never have another conversation with Harry Potter for as long as he lived – which, at this point, he hoped wasn’t very long. No, in addition to all that he had been summoned to testify at the hearing.

Draco drew a deep breath, shakier than he would have liked to admit, and walked across the room to the witness stand, slowly and deliberately. He took care not to look at anyone, least of all his father, shackled in the defendant’s chair. He kept head high and his eyes straight ahead.

This wasn’t the first time Draco had been on trial. After the war he had been tried as a Death Eater, just like everyone else. Of course it had been a mere formality, since the official Ministry policy had quickly become to pardon anyone who was recruited before the age of seventeen. Still, Draco knew all too well how this worked, and he hated, hated, _hated_ Potter for making him go through it again.

“We will now hear from Draco Lucius Malfoy, son of the defendant,” said the chairman.

Draco’s statement was meticulously crafted and they had made him memorise it so well he could repeat it in his sleep. He recited it mindlessly, in a calm, cool voice, barely even hearing the words.

“My father did what he believed was right for his family in the war. His goal was only to protect us. The Ministry could to provide protection against Lord Voldemort in the first war and so my father had every reason to suspect that the only way his family would be safe was to ally himself to the Death Eaters. He never committed himself to Lord Voldemort’s ideology, nor does he condone it. He renounces Lord Voldemort and everything he stood for, as the rest of our family has done.” The last part was the most difficult, but Draco forced himself to say it the same way he had said everything else, say it like he meant it. There would be hell to pay if he faltered. “We miss my father and all we want is for him to come home.”

Although Draco was still carefully staring into the middle distance, he caught a glimpse of the Chairman raising his eyebrows sceptically, and he could practically feel the air of displeasure radiating from the rest of the Council.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” the Chairman said flatly.

There was a scoff from one of the Council members, an elderly witch. “This is a farce,” she said loudly. “Listening to one Death Eater defend another. Preposterous!”

Draco felt the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten. He had known this would happen, that it wasn’t just a matter of speaking of his father, that he would be accused all over again, chained up, forced to display the Mark for the world to see. He fought to keep his expression blank and his breathing steady.

“Madam Marsh,” the Chairman said sharply, “I would like to remind you that Draco Malfoy has already been pardoned by this very Council.”

“And I was very clear on how I felt about that!” the old witch announced.

The Chairman glared at her and said, “Mr. Malfoy’s testimony will be taken into consideration the same as the rest. Please take your seat, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco returned to his seat stiffly, eyes fixed to the floor.

“The Council now calls upon the testimonial of Harry James Potter,” said the Chairman. An excited murmur rippled through the room and settled as a high-pitched buzz in Draco’s ears. His mind fell blank with panic.

Potter had started all this, of course, because what major event in Draco’s life hadn’t been started by Potter? But after the way their last conversation went down, it had never once crossed Draco’s mind that Potter might actually go through with it and still appear in the hearing. Draco had been so carefully detached throughout the hearing that he hadn’t even noticed that Potter was here.

In fact, why _was_ Potter here? He must have been furious with Draco, hated him, even. Unless he had come to the conclusion that Lucius’s release was the last thing Draco wanted, and was here to make sure it happened out of spite? Yes, that had to be it. Why else would he bother with this?

Potter took the stand calmly. He looked different than usual, his hair smoother and his expression grave. Draco tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t take his eyes off Potter as his mind raced, trying to understand what this meant, guess what would happen, what Potter might say. How he could get out of here.

The whispers around the room grew louder. “Whenever your ready, Mr. Potter,” said The Chairman pointedly, and silence fell once more.

Potter cleared his throat. “Good morning, everyone,” he said. He sounded different, too, more reserved. Draco thought he caught just a hint of nerves.

“We’re discussing the possibility of Lucius Malfoy’s release from Azkaban,” Potter began. The words he used seemed as carefully chosen as Draco’s had been, and Draco wondered if Potter had memorised a statement, too. He dismissed the thought, because why would Potter take the time to do that? “Mr. Malfoy was a prominent member of the Death Eaters, and he was at times one of Voldemort’s inner circle. He was there when Voldemort returned, and he was also a part of an attempt to kill myself and a number of my friends in this very Ministry, when none of us were of age.”

Potter had to pause because the outraged muttering had grown too loud for his voice to carry over the noise. Draco was more confused than shocked. It didn’t particularly shock him that Potter would say these things – they were true, after all – but he couldn’t figure out why he was saying them here. Was Potter trying to make sure they _didn’t_ release Draco’s father? And if he was, did he think he was helping Draco, or hurting him?

“Silence!” said the Chairman, his irritation apparent. The noise decreased, but didn’t die down entirely. “Go on, Mr. Potter.”

Potter nodded. “As I said, there is no question that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, and his crimes are not insignificant.” He raised his hands and managed to silence the crowd’s noises of anger and agreement much more efficiently than the Chairman. “Please, let me finish. Despite all of this, I would like the Council to consider this: Mr. Malfoy was not only a prominent Death Eater, but also a prominent and well-respected member of wizarding society. He was on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and he had quite a lot of friends and influence in the Ministry. His imprisonment has been a loss for many outside of his family.”

Even more confused now, Draco found himself thinking not of what Potter was saying, but how he said it. Draco was now certain that Potter’s speech was rehearsed. Maybe the crowd was buying it, but anyone who really knew Potter – what a strange thought, knowing Potter better than most people – would have realised instantly that these were not his words.

“The Malfoys defected during the Battle of Hogwarts and have renounced Voldemort and his ideology,” Potter went on, “and my sincere belief is that they do not intend to align themselves with the Dark Arts again. The War is over, Voldemort is dead and the Death Eaters are abolished. I realise that we are young, and many of you may consider us naïve, but many in my generation, who fought in Hogwarts, believe that the only way forward for us is a new sense of unity, of forgiveness of the past and a focus on the future. It is dwelling on our differences that lead us to these wars in the first place. Perhaps it would be better to focus on what we share and what can be done when we work together.”

Potter’s speech ended in deafening silence. It seemed like no one dared to draw a breath. Then, slowly, someone in the back started clapping. A second person joined them, then a third. Within seconds, the scattered applause turned into a roar of noise, as people jumped to their feet, clapping, whistling, shouting. Potter hardly seemed to notice. He was still standing at the podium, his eyes suddenly fixed on Draco, nailing him in his seat. His expression was intense and utterly unreadable. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. The moment stretched into an eternity, the noise fading into the background until it was like Draco and Potter were the only ones in the room. Potter mouthed something, but Draco couldn’t make out the words.

Reality rushed back in with the furious banging of the Chairman’s gavel. “Silence! Silence!” he roared.

Once a relative calm had returned to the room and Potter to his seat, the Chairman went on. “Based on the testimonies we have heard today, I propose the following. Lucius Malfoy will not be granted a full pardon. However, he will be released from Azkaban and permitted to serve the remainder of his sentence under house arrest. Any further infractions of Wizarding Law will result in his imprisonment. In addition, the Malfoy family assets seized by the Ministry, which have not been appropriated for rebuilding, will be released and placed in the charge of Narcissa Malfoy.”

Draco couldn’t help himself then, his eyes went to his father. Like he had suspected Lucius’s expression was like a storm cloud. Not only was this entire business intensely humiliating for him, but Draco could only imagine his fury at the thought of Narcissa being in charge of the family’s fortune. Draco suspected he would rather have stayed in Azkaban.

Ignoring the mutters from the crowd, some in agreement and some in protest, the Chairman said, “All in favour?”

Again, Draco couldn’t help but turn to look at the Council, as one by one, they raised their hands, until finally all but the elderly witch were in agreement. Draco’s stomach twisted again, and he dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to stay calm.

He kept it together through the Chairman banging his gavel, through the people slowly filing out of the room, through a uniformed auror releasing Lucius from his shackles, through Narcissa rushing to him, dragging Draco behind. As his parents embraced, expressing more affection than Draco could remember seeing his whole life, he seized the opportunity and fled.

Pushing through the people swarming in the corridor, Draco desperately sought somewhere to run. He spotted the sign for a toilet a little way ahead, and nearly knocked over a young witch in his haste to get out of sight. He banged into the deserted men’s room.

It couldn’t really be counted as an improvement, Draco reflected bitterly, as he leaned into the sink, heaving with sobs, to go from crying in a Hogwarts toilet to crying in a Ministry one. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, knowing all too well what he would get if his father caught him crying.

What felt like only seconds later, there was a banging on the door.

“Draco,” came Lucius’s stern voice from the other side of the door, “we’re leaving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my little brother for fact-checking this one despite not being a fan of Drarry in the slightest. He's the biggest HP nerd I know so I had him verify that I was being sufficiently canonically accurate.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since an update!! It was my birthday and then right after I got a kitten. His name is Kiwi and he's adorable, but he's kept me pretty busy for the past week. Anyways thanks for the patience and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

The thing about Malfoy family feuds was that they never seemed to last. Narcissa would tiptoe around for a few days while Lucius brooded in sullen silence, and then, just like that he would be back to normal, almost violently pretending nothing had happened at all. Whatever had caused the argument was never discussed again.

Of course, Draco had watched this happen since he was a child, over and over. He knew this time would be no different, and so he was determined to avoid being sucked back in. Walking away from his childhood home in the warm summer darkness, he had felt strangely light, untethered, like he could float away and never come back. No matter what his parents did, he would not be dragged back down into the darkness.

This, like all things apparently, proved to be a lot easier said than done. It had only been two days when he got the first owl. He didn’t respond; in fact, he didn’t even read the letter, throwing it into the fireplace unopened. But when he got home from work, there were three more messages waiting for him. He tossed the first two, but the third was a Howler, which made things a bit more difficult, especially since it was already smouldering. With a resigned sigh, Draco cast a silencing charm over the room. He didn’t need the neighbours hearing whatever this was.

“DRACO, I KNOW YOU’RE GETTING THESE MESSAGES.” His father’s booming voice emerged from the Howler, bouncing around the small room. Draco winced, glad he had made the precaution of the silencing charm.

“MEET ME AT MADAM MALKIN’S AT FOUR. WE HAVE BUSINESS TO DISCUSS,” his father’s voice declared. He didn’t sound particularly angry, just stern in that specific way he had, that made it clear that he expected his orders to be carried out immediately and without question. When Draco had been little, he had thought that some day he would be able to replicate that tone, to give orders like that, without hesitation or uncertainty. Now the thought seemed laughable, not least because he was unlikely to ever be in a position to give orders in the first place. It was a tone reserved for the likes of Lucius Malfoy. _And Potter_ , a voice in the back of Draco’s mind provided rather unhelpfully. And he had thought he had been doing such a good job not thinking about Potter.

Apparently there was no more to the message, as the Howler disintegrated in his hand, spiralling to the floor as little flakes of ash. Draco hesitated. This hadn’t been what he expected. Frankly, he wasn’t entirely sure what he _had_ expected, but certainly not this. Madam Malkin’s? Why?

Actually, now that Draco thought about it, his father going there made sense. He had just been released from prison, so naturally new robes would be on his list. Anything he had would be woefully out of style by now; among other things, the end of the war had brought on a whole new era of fashion.

But what didn’t make a lick of sense was why he wanted Draco there. Had it been anyone else, Draco would have suspected he was just trying to kill two birds with one stone and lecture Draco while he ran errands, but this was Lucius Malfoy. He didn’t think like that. There had to be a catch. Despite his resolution to stay away from his parents, Draco had to admit he was intrigued.

He glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past three – he could easily make the appointment if he wanted to. Usually he wouldn’t have been home until much later, but he had covered the morning shift today because Layton apparently had an appointment at the bank. Draco wondered briefly if his father had known that somehow, then dismissed the thought. It was much more likely that he had just approached the issue with a complete disregard for Draco and his schedule.

Draco knew he shouldn’t go. Giving into his father’s requests would mean giving up any semblance of freedom. He would once again be bound to following the path his father had chosen for him, except this time that path wouldn’t even take him anywhere, because any influence Lucius had in the world was long gone now. No, what Draco ought to do was try to scrounge up something edible, then crawl into bed and spend the rest of the day not thinking about Potter.

But of course Draco’s life would never have become a mess of such epic proportions, had he been even remotely capable of standing up to his parents. He would have never had to become a stupid Death Eater, for one. Instinctively, Draco’s fingers brushed the part of his sleeve that covered the Mark. It was almost irrational how much he wanted to get rid of it, to not have to see it every time he undressed, a harsh reminder of the past he had never wanted to have in the first place. For the umpteenth time he wracked his brain, trying to think of some resource he hadn’t thought to utilise, someone he hadn’t thought to ask.

Draco was shaken from his thoughts when he bumped into a tall, gaunt wizard, who muttered something unintelligible at him and rushed away. Draco was somewhat startled by the encounter, considering the fact that he hadn’t realised he had even left his flat. Looking around, he noticed that he was in Diagon Alley, walking purposefully towards Malkin’s. He was momentarily impressed that he had, in fact, managed to Apparate here without thinking about it – without even being aware he was doing it. Wasn’t it supposed to require intense concentration. Mostly he was just annoyed, however, annoyed that he was so incapable of resisting his father’s summons that he had automatically obeyed without ever making the decision to do so.

Still, he was here now. He might as well see what this was about. He continued to Madam Malkin’s and stepped inside; for the first time since he left Hogwarts, he realised.

Even though Draco was almost a quarter of an hour early, his father was already in there, and greeted him like he was late: “Draco. Finally.” And that was that. No surprise that Draco had come, no acknowledgement of their fight or anything that had been said at dinner a mere two days ago.

Lucius was having his measurements taken by a rather frightened-looking young witch. It was a rather undignified position, Draco knew, having to stand awkwardly still as a stranger operated a tape measure all over you. Somehow, his father still managed to look in control of the whole room.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come over here,” Lucius commanded, gesturing to the space beside him, where a second, older witch was waiting with a tape measure. Which didn’t make a lick of sense. Draco tried not to frown. His father wouldn’t have appreciated that.

“You want me to have new robes?” Draco asked cautiously, as he took his place next to his father to be measured. It seemed like a stupid question, certainly his father’s expression suggested that, but he had to ask. His father had literally cut him off, financially and otherwise, two days ago. To be buying Draco new robes seemed like a pretty sudden and drastic change of heart.

“Didn’t you just say…” Draco began, then cut himself off and swallowed the rest of the sentence. Family feuds rule number one. Never bring it up again.

“Say what?” his father asked coldly.

“Nothing,” Draco said quickly, busying himself with picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“You need something decent to wear for the banquet,” Lucius announced. He paused, looking Draco up and down. “And considering what you’re wearing now, dress robes aren’t the only thing you’re missing.”

Draco fought against the blush that threatened to creep into his cheeks. He was all too aware of his more than slightly threadbare look, which he certainly had not chosen; would never have chosen had he had the means to be more presentable.

Then his mind caught up with the rest of his father’s statement. “What banquet?”

Lucius scowled. “I see you only opened the Howler,” he said drily.

“Arms up, dear,” the witch who was measuring Draco cut in. Somewhat reluctantly, he lifted his arms, tugging on the end of his sleeve to make sure his arm stayed covered.

“There will be a banquet at the Ministry next Friday,” Lucius announced. “I, obviously, am not able to attend, so you will go in my place. I’ve already arranged an invitation for you. No plus one, unfortunately, but your mother tells me that you wouldn’t be able to come up with one in any case, so maybe it’s for the best.”

Draco’s face felt hot. He stared at a knot in the wooden floor, cursing himself for not having the presence of mind to stay home and avoid this entirely. Better yet, he should have just changed his name, polyjuiced into some random muggle and fled the country. There was no way in hell his parents would make him go to another party, not when the last one had very nearly cost him his life.

Why did it even need to be Draco who went? This was the kind of thing his parents did. Sure, Draco had been dragged along since he was a child, but he wasn’t a child any more. He certainly wasn’t the official representative of the Malfoy family. What was this ‘obvious’ reason that prevented his father from attending?

Oh. Right.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on house arrest?” Draco asked. Which, of course, was astonishingly stupid. Both of the seamstresses looked up, questioning.

Lucius just sniffed dismissively. “As if they’re going to arrest me for running errands.”

 _They very well might_ , Draco thought, but this time had the sense to keep it to himself.

“As I was saying,” Lucius said, “you’ll go to the banquet. People need to see that the Malfoys are still very much a part of society, war or no. Maybe you’ll even manage to meet someone.”

Thinking back to the people he had met at the previous party, Draco didn’t find the thought very appealing. He didn’t say anything.

“Draco, are you listening? You might meet a girl,” his father prodded.

Oh, he was talking about that sort of meeting. Because, obviously, he was an only child. It was up to him to carry on the family name. With a girl. Draco felt sick to his stomach.

“Whatever happened to that Parkinson girl?” Lucius said almost conversationally.

“Didn’t work out,” Draco muttered vaguely, trying not to think about any of his past romantic encounters that would probably kill his father if he ever found out. Potter, most of all. _Merlin’s beard, Draco, don’t think about Potter._

“She was beneath you, in any case,” Lucius concluded.

Desperate to change the subject, Draco asked, “What is this banquet for, anyway?”

Once again, his father looked at him like he was an idiot. “I really expect you to be better informed, Draco. Any child on the street could tell you.”

Draco did some quick thinking. The hardest part was remembering what day it was. His days seemed to blur together of late, each the same as the last. But he remembered that his father’s hearing had been on July 19th – his mother had repeated the date to him so many times he would probably remember it to the day he died – and that was two days ago, which made today Friday the 21st. He ran through potential holidays, retirements, birthdays, but he couldn’t come up with anything at the end of July except for…

Oh, _fuck._

“Potter,” Draco said weakly. He wanted to sit down – or lie down, actually, and never get up, preferably – but the bloody seamstress was still measuring him.

“Yes, indeed,” said Lucius maliciously. “It really shouldn’t surprise you that the Minister has decided to celebrate the _great hero’s_ birthday.”

 _No_ , thought Draco, _and it shouldn’t surprise me that once again the universe is doing its best to ruin my fucking life_. As if it wasn’t ruined enough already.

“Ultimately it makes next to no difference what the banquet is actually _for_ ,” his father said, evidently unaware that his son was slowly dying inside as they spoke. “The important thing is to be seen. In the right place, with the right people.”

“Over my dead body,” Draco found himself saying. His voice sounded small and hysterical.

“What?” his father asked.

“I will go to this thing,” Draco said louder, “over my dead body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is like the third non-drarryish chapter in a row, but I promise that will end in the next one ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more of my hastily constructed irrelevant background characters.

So, okay, yeah, Draco was at this banquet now, very much alive and well. In his defence, he didn’t stand a chance against his parents when they teamed up on him like that. Maybe that didn’t speak in his defence, actually. Maybe it was just that he was weak. Draco wondered for the umpteenth time if maybe his life would have been easier if he had siblings, if his parents had more than one child to harass. But judging by their general level of intimacy, his parents had probably only ever had sex that one time, when Draco was conceived. Draco shuddered that the thought. Maybe not the best thing to be thinking about right now. Or ever, for that matter.

                      On the upside, he was actually decently dressed for the first time in ages, which was nice, even nicer than he had anticipated. For once he didn’t feel like fading into a wall every time someone glanced in his direction. And there were plenty of glances, because this extravagant party was teeming with people. _All of them here for Potter_ , Draco couldn’t help but think. Of course that wasn’t entirely true. Like his father had pointed out, it usually didn’t make much of a difference what the party was actually for, you just had to be seen in the right place with the right people. Draco wondered how Potter, hardly raised in polite society, was acclimating to all this.

“A drink, sir?”

Draco started, shaken out of his thoughts by a waiter carrying a tray laden with tall, narrow champagne glasses. Draco took one gladly; it was a good while since he had had champagne. These days he tended to opt for things that got him drunker quicker.

As he watched the waiter weave his way through the crowd, Draco finally realised what the strange feeling in his chest was, the one that had been growing ever since he set foot in the building. The heavy, tight feeling of anxiety that usually weighed down his lungs seemed to have lifted for the moment. For the first time since the end of the war, he actually knew what he was supposed to be doing. He had been taken to this sort of parties since before he could talk. He could do this in his sleep. He was _comfortable_.

 _Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible idea to come here_ , Draco thought, somewhat reluctantly, partly because he was afraid he would somehow jinx it, and partly because he didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction. Not even on the level of thought.

Draco gravitated towards a group of wizards and witches hovering near the bar. This was always the easiest crowd to work, because more often than not, they were mostly here for free drinks and knocked them back liberally. It was a good place to start.

Sure enough, “Draco!” boomed a slightly-too-loud-for-the-occasion voice. Draco turned to see an older wizard grinning at him over a glass of what looked to be Firewhisky. Draco wrinkled his nose; it was hardly an appropriate drink.

“Look at you, a grown man!” the wizard declared. Thankfully, Draco had no trouble recognising him as someone who had been over to the Manor quite a few times when Draco was younger. Hezekiah Booth, if his memory served. Looking at his bloated face, reddened by broken blood vessels, Draco didn’t have to guess why he was no longer welcome at the Manor. Still, the Malfoys were no longer in a position to be picky about the company they kept.

“Mr Booth,” Draco said smoothly. “Good to see you.”

“So well-mannered, so well-mannered,” Booth said, nodding with approval. Draco wanted to point out how much he disliked being patronised, but he bit back the words. He was sent here to socialise and, by gods, socialise he would.

“Say,” said Booth jovially, “have you talked to Epidicus Toule yet? He’s in the broomstick business now, would you believe?”

And it was as easy as that. For the next half hour or so, Draco drifted from one group to another, greeting old acquaintances, being introduced to new ones, hearing all the latest news in trade and politics, and most importantly, all the latest gossip in society. That’s what everything revolved around in the end. You knew the right thing about the right person, and you had them in the palm of your hand. Draco carefully tucked away several morsels of information: this high-ranking Ministry official was having an affair with this Quidditch player, that owl breeder was going bankrupt, a certain potions supplier was scamming their customers with watered-down potions. Of course there was no telling how much of these stories had a grain of truth to them, but they were worth looking into, nonetheless.

Draco even managed to keep his composure, taking on an expression of bored indifference, when a young witch who Draco thought might have been a year ahead of him in Ravenclaw, launched into a scandalous story of Albus Dumbledore’s alleged relationships with a number of prominent wizards. She was shut down quickly by an older witch exclaiming, “Merlin’s beard, Rasha, things like that aren’t to be talked about.”

That soured Draco’s mood a little, an unwelcome reminder of how entirely unacceptable this part of him was: it wasn’t even to be talked about. Still, he had to admit, the evening was progressing much better than he could have hoped.

Then he saw Potter.

At first he just caught a glimpse of him through the crowd, so brief that Draco wasn’t even sure it was him. So he moved closer, just to see if it really was Potter. To better avoid him, of course. At this point any kind of interaction with Potter would have been sheer insanity.

Potter – yes, it really was him – was standing with a group of people towards the centre of the room. Draco recognised most of the others: a couple of professional Quidditch players, a vaguely familiar-looking auror, the Minister and, horrifyingly, Madam Marsh, the elderly witch from the hearing who had insisted that Draco was a Death Eater. Surprisingly, none of Potter’s usual posse – Granger, Longbottom, Lovegood, any of the Weasleys – was anywhere to be seen.

Draco was about to walk away and go find out if this rumour of the watered-down potions had any truth to it, when he realised that something wasn’t right. While the rest of the group was talking animatedly, Potter remained perfectly still, staring silently at the floor. There was something off about his posture, too, although Draco couldn’t have said what.

Without ever really deciding to do so, Draco found himself weaving through the crowd, getting close enough that he could hear the group’s conversation.

“––shame he didn’t live to see his name cleared, of course,” the Minister was saying, while the others nodded enthusiastically, save for Potter, who appeared to be frozen in place. Draco inched forward, trying to get a clear view of Potter’s face without being seen. He wasn’t looking where he was going and he stepped on someone’s toes.

“Oi, watch it!”

“Sorry,” Draco muttered, not even looking at whoever he had stepped on. He had just caught sight of Potter’s expression and he couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to.

Potter looked blank. Not just expressionless, but like he wasn’t even there. There was a faraway look in his eyes that made Draco wonder if he could actually see anything at all. It was almost like he had been kissed by a Dementor, like his soul had been removed, leaving nothing but an empty shell.

“You really had no idea?” asked one of the Quidditch players. “That he was your godfather?”

Potter didn’t respond. He didn’t move, or blink, or display in any way that he was aware he was being spoken to, or that there were other people in the room. The slightest of frowns was beginning to form on the face of the Quidditch player, and then Draco was stepping into the group.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he heard himself say. He tried to catch up with himself and not panic, because he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal Harry away from you.”

Draco placed a hand on Potter’s elbow, hoping desperately that the gesture seemed casual and that it would be enough to shake Potter awake from whatever what going on inside his head.

“You’re the Malfoy boy,” Madam Marsh said disapprovingly.

“Guilty as charged,” Draco replied easily, making it sound like a joke, even though everyone present was well aware of how real the accusation was. He turned to Potter, trying to make eye contact, to get any hint that Potter was in there somewhere.

“Hermione and Ron were looking for you, Harry. I think I saw them head towards the bar?” Draco said. It felt bizarre to use their first names like he knew them, like they were friends, but it was imperative that he made the others believe it. Otherwise this would never work.

Draco suppressed a sigh of relief when something flickered in Potter’s eyes and then he nodded slightly.

“I’d better find them,” Potter muttered. He turned and walked away, quickly disappearing out of sight into the crowd.

Draco allowed himself to stare after him for a split second, wondering where he would go and if he was all right. Which was absurd, of course, because whether or not Potter was all right was certainly none of his business. He turned to the rest of the group, smiling. “So sorry to interrupt,” he said, extending a hand to the Minister. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Draco Malfoy.”

The Minister shook his hand, looking a bit perplexed. “I’ve heard about you, Mr Malfoy. I didn’t realise you and Harry were friends,” he said, his tone suggesting that he had heard quite the opposite.

Cursing on the inside, Draco adjusted his smile to be more casual. “We went to Hogwarts together,” he said smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been planning this part of the story for weeks and I'm hyped :D Hope you like this as much as I do.


	14. Chapter 14

Draco surveyed the crowd, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of Potter. Despite his best efforts and growing impatience, it had taken him almost ten minutes of tedious small talk before he managed to slip away from the conversation. Potter could be anywhere by now.

It wasn’t entirely clear to Draco why exactly he was so eager to find Potter at all, since his original goal at the party had been to avoid him at all cost. But there wasn’t time to think about that now, he would figure it out later. The important thing now was to get to Potter as soon as possible, because clearly there was something seriously wrong with him.

But where had Potter gone? As Draco search turned more frantic, it was becoming increasingly clear that Potter wasn’t anywhere to be found. He must have left. Except it was his own party, so he couldn’t have left, could he? When Draco thought about it, he knew exactly where he would go to get away from the crowds. With any luck Potter would have had the same thought. It couldn’t hurt to check, in any case.

At first Draco thought he had been wrong and that the men’s room was entirely deserted. But just as he turned to leave and continue his search elsewhere, he heard a soft rustling noise. Following the source of the sound, he walked past the sinks and stalls, all the way to the back of the toilet, where there was a gap between the last stall and the back wall.

Potter was sitting on the floor, hugging his legs, face buried in the circle of his arms. He didn’t seem to have heard Draco come in. Even from where he was standing, Draco could tell Potter was shaking.

“Potter?” he said quietly. There was no response.

Draco knelt down in front of Potter, hesitantly placing a hand on his arm. “Harry?”

Potter flinched back from his touch. His head jerked up and his eyes darted back and forth like he had no idea where he was. Draco waved a hand in front of his face.

“Hey. You alright?”

Potter blinked a few times, his gaze finally focusing on Draco. “Malfoy?”

Draco wondered briefly if Potter was going to yell at him, considering how they had left off last time. But considering how pale and shaky he looked, he suspected Potter wasn’t in the right mind-set for an argument at the moment. “Are you alright?” he repeated.

Potter made a small noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Do I look bloody alright to you?”

Ah, so there was going to be yelling after all. Still, Draco didn’t even consider walking away. He couldn’t very well leave Potter like this, could he? “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Are you ill?”

Potter shook his head. “This keeps happening,” he said. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“What keeps happening?” Draco prompted. He had never seen Potter like this, and it was scaring him. Come to think of it, he didn’t think he had ever seen anyone like this. He let his hand settle on Potter’s arm again, and this time he didn’t move away.

“Someone says something and I… things happen, all the bad things… or, or, maybe the don’t happen, maybe… I see things, or… I don’t know.” Potter spoke quickly, erratically, a bit like the time when he had told Draco what happened at New Year’s.

“You see things?” Draco said, picking up on the only part he felt he understood. “Like visions?” He would never have put Potter down as someone who had the Sight.

Potter shook his head again. “More like memories,” he said. “But it’s not like remembering, it’s like… it’s like I’m there. Again. For real.”

Finally, Draco felt like he understood. Without thinking, he started tracing soothing circles on Potter’s arm with his thumb. “Where were you just now?” he asked softly.

Potter swallowed. He was right past Draco at the wall behind him. “Sirius,” he said, barely audible.

Draco suppressed a grimace. That’s what he had thought they had been talking about when he found Potter. He didn’t really know what Potter’s relationship to Sirius Black had been, but he did know the circumstances of Black’s death, and he imagined that was what Potter was talking about.

Potter looked at Draco. “It was my fault,” he said hoarsely, “my fault that he died. It’s all my fault.” Suddenly his eyes were brimming with tears.

Draco captured Potter’s face between his hands, which was stupendously inappropriate, but Draco told himself this was an emergency. “I seem to recall it being my Aunt Bella who killed Sirius Black,” he said.

Potter froze, and Draco realised it may have been a bad move to point out that he was related to Bellatrix. He let his hands falls to his sides, suddenly afraid to look at Potter. He must have been furious with Draco, because not only was it his default state of existence, now he also had every reason to be angry.

Then Potter burst out laughing. Draco looked up at him, startled, because it wasn’t a normal laugh, nor the mocking one Draco was rather accustomed to being on the receiving end of. No, Potter sounded hysterical, not far short of insane.

“She’s… she’s your bloody… aunt,” Potter hiccoughed between fits of giggles. Draco just stared at him, the humour of this statement lost on him entirely. After a moment, Potter seemed to get a grip on himself. He took a few shaky breaths and said, “God, purebloods are so fucking inbred.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, then calculated that there had been at least three of his cousins in the same year at Hogwarts, and closed it again. Hell, Black had been his mother’s cousin. Potter had a point.

There was a silence, stretching uncomfortably long. Draco picked at his cuticles, unsure what to say, what to do. He was still crouched uncomfortably on the floor and his legs were beginning to cramp up, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up; not even the thought of how unsanitary this forgotten corner of the men’s room must be was enough to get him to leave Potter here alone.

Draco heard Potter shift. He glanced up and saw that he had pushed back his glasses and buried his face in his hands.

“Potter?”

“What the fuck is wrong with me, Malfoy?” came Potter’s muffled voice from behind his hands.

What the hell was Draco supposed to say to that? There was nothing wrong with Potter, obviously, because he was the perfect hero. Except clearly something was wrong or else he wouldn’t be huddled on the toilet floor at his own birthday party, but Draco had no idea what to make of that, either. So he resorted to what he knew.

“Lots of things. You’re a prat, your friends are the worst, you think you’re the centre of the universe, I’ve known you for ten years and I’ve never seen your hair be anything other than a mess, your glasses are—“

“Okay!” Potter said sharply. “Enough. I get it. You hate me.” He lowered his hands and glared at Draco, who found it hard to be intimidated when Potter’s eyes were red with tears. Still, he felt like flinging himself out of the window. He could sweet-talk Ministry officials, socialites and businessmen into liking him all night long, but somehow every conversation he had with Potter immediately turned into a flaming wreck.

“Why the fuck are you even here, Malfoy?” Potter spat.

A flash of anger made it through Draco’s self-hatred. “At the party?” he said pointedly, “Because my father ordered me to.”

He watched with satisfaction as a look of understanding crept onto Potter’s face.

“Fuck,” Potter sighed. “I really blew that one.”

“I did _tell_ you,” Draco said. “You didn’t listen, or care. Case in point: thinks the world revolves around him.”

Potter recoiled. “If you came here to insult me, I could really do without that right now, thanks,” he said icily.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, wincing as blood suddenly rushed back into his numb legs. “I’ll be going, then.”

He turned to go, but was stopped by Potter’s hand closing around his wrist, gripping painfully hard. Draco swirled back around, reaching for his wand. So, once again, it had to come to this. They were adults and they shared more secrets than Draco cared to think about, but ultimately all he and Potter were ever going to do was fight.

Except that Potter wasn’t looking up at him like someone picking a fight. His fingernails were digging into Draco’s arm, but his expression was almost unrecognisable. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted; Draco had never even entertained the thought that Potter could ever look so… scared. Lost. Something.

“Don’t go,” said Potter, hardly louder than a breath. “It’s better when you’re here.”

Something shattered inside Draco. In a fleeting moment of clarity, he understood that there was nothing that mattered more than this. There was no difference, no conflict, no standards of normality that could ever be more important than Harry Potter asking him to stay. He felt this with a all-encompassing certainty that warmed him from the inside.

Draco dropped down next to Potter, wincing as sparks of pain radiated from where his knees made contact with the tiled floor. Still, he had suffered worse for worse reasons, he reflected as he wrapped his arms around Potter and pulled him into a somewhat awkwardly positioned embrace.

“I’m here,” Draco said. “For as long as you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* now kiss


	15. Chapter 15

“This is really fucking embarrassing,” Potter said after a while. His breath tickled against Draco’s neck, making the corners of his mouth twist up into a smile, nothing like the polite mask he had been wearing out there all evening. A tiny bubble of happiness was growing in his chest, which felt odd but in a good way, he thought.

“What is?” Draco asked quietly, unwilling to ruin this by talking too much. Every time he and Potter talked, it turned into an argument.

Potter pulled back slightly so he could see Draco’s face. “You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “This.”

Draco looked at Potter. His face was blotchy from tears and there was a corresponding damp spot on the shoulder of Draco’s robes. He understood what Potter was getting at. “I agree,” he said nonchalantly. Potter’s face fell, so he quickly continued, “sitting on the men’s room floor isn’t exactly the most dignified pastime.”

Potter swatted him. “You know what I meant.”

Draco sighed. Once again, his bubble of happiness was losing altitude. They were only a few careless words away from being at each other’s throats again. So, he didn’t say anything.

“I hate that you saw this,” Potter said bitterly, even as he leaned his head back against Draco’s shoulder.

Draco couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I can’t imagine,” he said theatrically, “how embarrassing it must be to have someone come across you in such compromising circumstances.”

Even Potter managed to notice the irony. “Okay, fair enough,” he said. “But that was different.”

“Different how, exactly?” Draco asked amicably.

“Well…” Potter hesitated. “It wasn’t… me.”

Draco scoffed. “Merlin’s beard, you’re conceited.” He regretted it as soon as he said it. He didn’t want to insult Potter, but he also apparently didn’t know how to talk to him without insulting him.

“ _I’m_ conceited?” echoed Potter. “Look who’s talking.”

“Must you always insult me?” snapped Draco, slightly hypocritically.

“You started it,” Potter said petulantly.

And just like that, they descended into sullen silence. Draco did feel somewhat comforted by the fact that Potter was still leaning against him, although that may have been just because he couldn’t move with how awkwardly they were squeezed into the space between the stall and the wall. But when he tentatively laced their fingers together, Potter didn’t protest, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

“I’m glad it’s you for once,” Draco said after a while.

“Good to hear you still take pleasure in my suffering, I guess,” Potter retorted.

Draco elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s not what I meant. I just… You’ve saved me so many times. I’m just happy I could return the favour, okay?”

“I didn’t need saving,” Potter insisted.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Just let me have this, Potter.”

“Fine.” Potter squirmed. “I need to get up. I think my whole body fell asleep.”

“About bloody time. I haven’t been able to feel my legs for the last ten minutes,” said Draco.

With some effort, they managed to shuffle around enough to get to their feet. Draco smoothed down the wrinkles in his robes, vaguely hoping that everyone at the party was too drunk at this point to notice. Speaking of which…

“I guess we should get back out there,” Draco said, “People must be starting to wonder where you went.”

Potter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What if I really don’t want to?” he said, laughing weakly.

Draco had to admit, he could relate to that sentiment. He couldn’t count all the times he had been forced to take part in an event he didn’t want anything to do with. Not to mention that if he was being perfectly honest with himself, which he generally tried to avoid, he would have much rather stayed here with Potter than done any sort of networking out there. He had done enough for one night, surely.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Potter,” he said with a shrug. “It’s your birthday.”

“Actually,” said Potter, “it isn’t my birthday until Tuesday.”

“I know,” said Draco before he managed to stop himself. There was no reasonable explanation for him knowing when Potter’s birthday was. Okay, fine, he was a celebrity, but still. It was embarrassing.

In the end, it was pretty easy to forget about that embarrassment, because suddenly Potter’s arms were around Draco’s waist, pulling him into a soft, lingering kiss.

“Thank you, Draco,” said Potter quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Draco hesitated, “Harry.”

Potter smiled. No one had ever smiled at Draco like that. It was slow and warm and the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. He felt overwhelmed; no words in the world could ever begin to express the way his stomach twisted every time he looked at Potter. So he didn’t try to say anything, opting to lean into another kiss instead.

The sound of the door opening was abnormally loud in the silence of the empty men’s room.

Draco froze in terror. They had gotten lucky last time with Lovegood, but to be discovered here… Their lives would be over. Just when he had thought there was actually a chance that things would get better. How did he keep forgetting how wrong all of this was, on so many levels? Why did he keep doing this to himself?

Potter’s reaction was the opposite. He swung into action in a split-second, pushing Draco back into the farthest corner, pressing a hand over his mouth, which was entirely unnecessary. As if Draco would make a sound. He didn’t even dare breathe. Potter pulled something from under his robes, too fast for Draco to see what it was before he had thrown it over the two of them: the invisibility cloak. Why did Potter even have that with him? At a birthday party? Not that Draco should necessarily be complaining about that.

They listened in frozen silence, pressed as far into the corner as they could, to footsteps entering the first stall, the click of the lock, the unsavoury sound of urinating, the lock again, receding footsteps, and finally the door. _The bastard didn’t even wash his hands_ , thought Draco fuzzily, _disgusting_. Not that he should be complaining about that, either.

After waiting for a moment longer, Potter pulled the cloak away and stepped back, removing his hand from Draco’s mouth. Draco exhaled slowly, leaning heavily into the wall, lightheaded from holding his breath so long. He pointed an accusatory finger at the cloak.

“Why would you have brought that!?” he demanded. It should have been the least of his concerns, but his heart was hammering a million miles a minute and he couldn’t seem to think straight.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little on edge!” hissed Potter, balling up the cloak and shoving it back into his robes.

The bubble of happiness that had been floating around inside him was gone, Draco realised. In its place was just a cold, empty feeling. He couldn’t keep convincing himself that this was okay, because it was never going to be okay. They had narrowly avoided disaster yet again, but every time they did this the risk grew. Draco shouldn’t so much as have a private conversation with Potter ever again, for both their sakes.

Potter reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair away from Draco’s face, tucking it behind his ear. The gesture was so sweet, so tender, and it made Draco’s heart ache, knowing it could never happen again.

“You all right, Draco?” asked Potter, genuine concern in his voice.

Draco found himself shaking his head wildly. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Oh come on,” huffed Potter, throwing his hands up in the air. “Fuck! Why do you have to be such a fucking coward, Malfoy?”

That stung, and it was hardly fair. Potter could be naïve all he wanted, but it wasn’t Draco’s fault that he had to be realistic. “Well, there’s the Potter we know and love,” he snapped. “Look, maybe you’re really so rich and famous and loved by all that it would actually be enough to save you. But me? I’m nobody – I’m notorious, if anything. If this ever gets out, my life is over and that’s the beginning and end of it.”

“You think I don’t know all that?” said Potter fiercely. “You really think I don’t understand what’s at stake here? Me? Every detail of my life has been chewed over by the press since I was a teenager, for fuck’s sake!”

Draco rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Oh, why didn’t you say so!” he said in mock delight. “That makes everything so much better!”

“Very funny,” Potter snapped. He pushed his glasses onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes, then exhaled slowly and looked at Draco again. “What I’m trying to say is… I know what the risks are, okay? I know just as well as you do, better even, what an absolute shitshow it would be if people found out. And believe you me, no amount of fame could save me.” He frowned, running a hand through his hair. “All I’m saying is… It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Are you?”

Draco felt his entire world turn upside down and inside out and all he could do was stare. He tried to string together a sentence, but there was no way, not when he was sure he was about to disintegrate. How could he even begin to wrap his mind around this, that Potter, who had so much, who had _everything_ to lose, was willing to risk it all? For Draco?

But now that Potter had said it, Draco realised how much it was true: it was worth the risk. How could it not be, when this was the only thing he had ever really wanted? What did he have that was worth more, that he wasn’t willing to lose?

So he pulled Potter close and kissed him like there was no tomorrow, because for all he knew, there might not be. “Yes,” he whispered against Potter’s lips, “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God, finally. (Yes I know I am the one writing this but I couldn't force them until they were ready, could I?)


	16. Chapter 16

Draco woke up feeling… different. At first he couldn’t pinpoint what it was; he laid there staring at the sun patterns on the ceiling and examined himself, trying to define what he felt. Eventually, it came to him: it wasn’t what he felt, it was what he didn’t feel. He couldn’t remember the last time he had woken up this easily, without his first thought of the day being that he wished he never had to wake up at all. His whole body felt somehow lighter as he got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. As he made coffee he was astonished to find himself humming under his breath.

Even going to work didn’t feel quite as daunting today. He went as far as wishing Layton a good morning, only to receive a very perplexed look and consequently realise that he didn’t usually talk voluntarily at work. Before he might have lamented over the disproportionate effect Potter had on his mood, but at least this time it was a good mood, so he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Everything went wonderfully until just after Draco’s lunch break, which was when Potter entered the shop. Not bothering with the pretence of buying something despite the several other shoppers in plain sight, he walked straight up to Draco at the register.

Immediately, Draco’s heart jumped into his throat. How was Potter this bloody careless? He was Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake. People were looking at him. People were always looking at him. He must have known that, so why would he deliberately walk into the shop like this? And approach Draco in public for no apparent reason?

“Hi,” Potter said cheerfully, leaning onto the counter. “How’s business?”

Draco’s eyes darted around to make sure that no one was watching at the moment. Then he dragged Potter by his sleeve into the back room. “Are you insane?” he hissed, shutting the door behind them.

Potter frowned. “What are you on about?”

“You can’t just waltz in here in broad daylight!” Draco exclaimed, struggling to keep his voice down. “Which part of ‘we have to exercise utmost discretion to avoid totally fucking ruining our lives’ did you forget since yesterday?”

“I was being discreet!” Potter protested.

Draco snorted. “Clearly you wouldn’t know discretion if it hit you in the face. Typical Gryffindor.”

Potter made a frustrated noise and Draco noticed his fists were clenched. Always easy to tick off, Potter.

“I can’t believe I actually thought things would be different now,” Potter said bitterly. “How do I keep doing this?”

Draco felt a stab in his heart. He’d done it again, he had inadvertently started a fight with Potter again, like he always did. He didn’t want to argue, and he didn’t want to feel this gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach, the fear of being found out, of being ruined. He just wanted to go back to his blissful mood from earlier, to enjoy all of this without having to be afraid. He could only assume Potter felt the same.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, reaching out to take Potter’s hand. “It _is_ different. I just don’t know how to not fight with you.”

“I know the feeling,” Potter admitted. He pulled Draco’s hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles lightly. A shiver ran down Draco’s spine. “And I’m sick of fighting.”

Draco snaked his free hand into Potter’s hair and pulled him into a kiss. It started slow and soft, but then Potter wrapped his arms around Draco and pressed their bodies flush together and then Draco was slamming him against the shelves, knocking down books and dust, their mouths crushed together and hands mapping the curves of each other’s bodies.

Only when a particularly heavy book fell, narrowly missing Potter’s head and landing with a definitely-too-loud thud next to Draco’s foot did he realise that this was neither the time nor place for this. He broke away from the kiss, and leaned his forehead against Potter’s, unwilling to move any further.

“Let’s not fight,” Draco said breathlessly, tracing Potter’s jaw with his fingertips.

Potter laughed softly. “Do you think we’re capable?” he asked.

Draco shrugged, marvelling at how strange a grin felt on his face. “At least we can say we tried.”

Potter kissed him lightly. “I’m sorry I showed up unannounced,” he said.

“I’m sorry I got mad,” said Draco. “I’m just slightly petrified by all this, you know?”

“Boy do I,” said Potter empathically. “I swear I’m more afraid of being caught with you than I ever was of Voldemort.”

Draco flinched, taking half a step back.

“What?” said Potter. “I’m allowed to say that, I’m me.”

“It’s not that,” Draco said, shaking his head.

“What then?” asked Potter. He grabbed Draco by the wrist and pulled him close again. “The name? He’s dead, it’s not dangerous any more. And Dumbledore said the fear of a name increases the fear of the thing itself.”

“It’s different for me,” Draco said in a small voice. He hated this, hated how afraid he still was, hated that the mere mention of the name made him feel sick to his stomach. “I’m not… I’m not brave like you are.”

“Everyone thinks I’m brave,” Potter said, “But I think mostly I’ve just been lucky. And too stubborn to quit while I’m ahead.”

Draco laughed weakly. “Well, you’re nothing if not stubborn, that much I know,” he admitted.

“I won’t say it if it bothers you,” Potter promised. “I’ll just call him Tom. That would have ticked him off.”

“See, that’s the kind of thing that would terrify most people,” Draco said. “The prospect of ticking off the Dark Lord.”

Potter frowned. “Okay, if I’m not going to call him Volde– you-know-what any more, you’re going to have to stop with the ‘Dark Lord’. Only Death Eaters say that.”

Draco’s heart sank. “Have you forgotten?” he asked tautly, pulling back his sleeve. “I am a Death Eater.”

At first it looked like Potter was going to recoil from the Mark, but he seemed to change his mind last-minute. Instead, he slowly traced it with his fingertips, making Draco shiver.

“Why haven’t you gotten rid of it?” Potter asked quietly.

“You think I haven’t tried?” Draco retorted, despair creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. He held up his arm so Potter could see the scars crisscrossing across his wrist. “See? Nothing works.”

Potter traced his fingers over the Mark again, feeling the unevenness of the scarred skin. Then, slowly, carefully he placed a kiss on it, right on the skull. Draco blinked, completely blindsided by the gesture. Surely Potter must be angry with him for this, that he hadn’t even managed to get rid of this ugly reminder of his shameful past? Draco was afraid to meet his eye.

“It’s not your fault,” Potter said softly. He grabbed Draco’s jaw and forced him to look at him. His eyes were serious and kind and impossibly green and Draco was thoroughly overwhelmed. “Draco, you hear me? It isn’t your fault.”

Draco wanted to say that it _was_ his fault, that hadn’t had to go along with it but he had been a coward, that he _hated_ himself for all of it. But when he opened his mouth all that came out was a small, choked sob. Apparently, there were only two options for a conversation with Potter: fighting or crying. Bloody fantastic.

Potter wrapped his arms around Draco and he hugged him back, hoping to somehow convey what he had no idea how to begin to say: how grateful he was, how much better Potter made everything just by being here, how scared he was that someone would catch them and that all of this would go away.

“I’m so fucking fucked up,” Draco said after a while.

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” Potter replied. He pulled back slightly to look at Draco. “I’ll ask Hermione about the Mark. How to get it out.”

Draco shook his head violently. “No. No. You can’t,” he said.

“Why not?” Potter asked.

“Because she’ll know you’re asking for me, you idiot. And she’ll want to know why,” said Draco. “As far as the general public is concerned, we barely tolerate each other, remember?”

“Right,” said Potter thoughtfully. “But this is Hermione we’re talking about, not some stranger. She’d never… My friends would never sell us out. You saw what happened with Luna: nothing.”

“Lovegood is a loon,” Draco said dismissively. Then something terrible occurred to him. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

“Don’t talk about my friends like that,” Potter said, a shadow of a threat in his voice. Draco realised dimly that he had insulted Lovegood without even realising it. _I guess it’s not just Potter, then_ , he thought. Maybe he was just a mean-spirited person in general. But all of that paled in comparison to the real issue: Potter hadn’t answered his question. He was dodging.

“Potter. Please tell me you haven’t told anyone.” Draco could barely hear himself over how heard his heart was suddenly hammering. Had he been an idiot to trust Potter like this?

“Of course I haven’t told anyone, Malfoy,” Potter said irately. “Will you relax?”

Draco drew a deep breath, preparing to start shouting, to demand how he was supposed to relax when Potter ambushed him like this in his workplace, putting them both in jeopardy, but he remembered just in time that he was supposed to be trying to not fight. He exhaled slowly, blowing out air and anger.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just scared.”

Potter looked taken aback; evidently he had been prepared for a fight as well. He recovered quickly, however. “Me too,” he said. “But I thought of something that might make things easier. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Draco said, allowing himself to feel a flicker of hope.

“Now, this is going to seem pretty… strange to you,” Potter said. He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. “But just bear with me, yeah?”

The hope turned into a stab of anxiety. “What did you do?” Draco asked warily.

“I didn’t do anything!” Potter replied. “I just… I got you something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, holding it out to Draco.

Draco squinted at the thing, trying to figure out what it was. It was small enough to fit snugly in Potter’s palm and vaguely rectangular in shape, but with rounded corners. About a quarter of the surface was a greenish square and the lower half was covered in little, oval buttons. It was a light grey colour.

“What is it?” Draco asked, when no visual clue provided an answer.

“A mobile phone,” Potter said, sounding a bit sheepish. “They’re pretty new, this model especially.”

Draco frowned. “A phone? You mean the thing muggles use to talk to each other?” he asked, incredulous. How could some muggle contraption possibly be of use to them.

“Yeah,” said Potter. “I gather you never took Muggle Studies.”

“Are you aware of who you’re talking to?” Draco replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Right, yeah.” Potter looked uncomfortable, so uncomfortable, in fact, that Draco couldn’t help but take pity on him and decide not to dismiss this idea without hearing all of it first. Muggle nonsense or not.

“So, what does it do, then?” Draco prompted.

Potter’s face lit up. “Really? Okay, well, if you have one of these, and I have one, which I do, you can call me, or I can call you.” Taking in Draco’s uncomprehending expression, he clarified, “Meaning we can talk to each other from a distance. Hear each other’s voices.”

“That little thing can do that? That’s pretty cool,”” said Draco, genuinely impressed. “I mean, for a muggle thing,” he added quickly.

“There’s also this thing called a text message. I’m still figuring it out, but Hermione says it’s like sending an owl, except it’s almost instantaneous,” Potter went on. “As it turns out, muggles have come up with some pretty useful things recently.”

“So it would appear,” Draco admitted. He took the ‘phone’ from Potter and turned it over in his hand. It was lighter than he had expected. “I feel lied to.”

“Yeah?” said Potter nervously.

“All my life I’ve been told that muggles are these primitive… simple things,” Draco said, “but if this thing does what you say it does, then that’s a hell of a lot more practical than owls.”

“I know, right?” said Potter. “If only I had had one of these in Hogwarts when…” He trailed off.

“When?” Draco prompted.

Potter shook his head. “Let’s talk about it some other time. So you’ll take it?”

Draco hesitated. It would never have even occurred to him to use anything produced by muggles, because what did they know about anything? Then again, he had spent most of his life around people who thought that about everyone besides pureblood wizards, and clearly that wasn’t the truth, since the most brilliant witch Draco had ever met was a mudblood, so maybe it was wizards who didn’t know anything. Besides, the beauty of this muggle contraption was that if he used it to communicate with Potter, the chances of anyone in their world catching on were next to nonexistant.

“Sure,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. There was one more upside to this plan, he realised. “But you’ll have to teach me how it works.”

“Happy to,” said Potter, smiling. “When do you get off work?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: the phone is a Nokia 3310. Which was my first phone. It came out in 2000, I checked :D I am honestly way too please with myself for thinking of this.


	17. Chapter 17

**Are you sure it’s a good idea?**

**are u ever going to calm down**

**How much harder would it be to write the first two letters in you?**

**piss off, malfoy**

**Sorry.**

**dont apologise**

**You only call me Malfoy when you’re annoyed.**

**just come over already draco**

**Fine. Address?**

**12 grimmauld place**

**You’re kidding.**

But Harry had not, in fact, been kidding. Draco wondered how it had never come up in the past month of phone conversations and Harry sneaking into Draco’s flat that Harry lived in Draco’s mother’s ancestral home. Sure, Draco had been vaguely aware that Sirius Black had left the place to Harry and it had been used by the Order during the War, but it had never once occurred to him that Harry would actually live there. It may have been nice once, a long time ago, but let’s face it, the place was a dump. Surely someone of Harry’s stature could do better?

“I don’t know,” Harry said with a shrug, as Draco took his coat off, “Hermione keeps telling me to get a flat and I keep promising I will, but…” He trailed off.

“But what?” prompted Draco, placing a soft kiss on Harry’s forehead as a form of greeting. “You’re too attached to the dust and mould and spider webs?”

“That’s hardly fair,” Harry protested, gesturing around the hallway. “It’s a lot nicer now. I even managed to get rid of that portrait.”

Draco had to admit it wasn’t as dreary as he had expected. The wallpaper looked new, the carpet was soft and clean and the hall was flooded with warm light that was decisively un-Black. The aesthetic was a lot like Draco had always imagined the Gryffindor tower would look. He didn’t know which portrait Harry was talking about, but it didn’t really matter since, as far as he knew, pretty much every member of the Black family had been more or less horrible.

“Okay, fine, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Draco admitted. “Which leads me to ask why we have been spending all this time in my one-bedroom flat when you have a whole house?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair like he did when he was nervous. “I guess I was afraid you’d be… upset?” he ventured.

Draco scoffed. “Please, there’s enough emotional baggage in being a Malfoy, don’t make me take responsibility for being a Black, too.”

Harry laughed. “Fair enough.”

“So, are you going to show me around or what?” asked Draco.

In the end it turned out that Harry was barely using a third of the house. He had taken over the kitchen, the sitting room, a bedroom and a bathroom, but everything else was largely in its original, dust-and-spiders state.

“I can see why Granger urges you to get out of here,” Draco said as they made their way back downstairs.

“It makes me feel weird when you call them Granger and Weasley,” Harry commented.

“What else am I supposed to call them? It’s not like I somehow know them just because I know you,” said Draco. If he was being honest, he tried not to think about Harry’s friends at all, because whenever he did he was overcome by a tidal wave of panic. What had taken place at the Patils’ party, and before that in the shop, was all too fresh in Draco’s memory. If the Weasleys jumped at the chance to kick his face in just for existing in the same space as them, Draco didn’t want to imagine what they would do if they ever found out he and Harry were friends, let alone… He shuddered.

“Only because you won’t let me tell them,” said Harry.

“Like you would if I did,” Draco retorted. “You had plenty of chances to tell them about the sixth year and you never did.”

Harry made a face. “Low blow.”

“Sorry,” said Draco, “but it’s true. You don’t want to tell people any more than I do.”

“You got me,” Harry said with a sigh. “Still, I hate that my friends don’t know you.”

“You know they’d kill me if they found out,” Draco said as matter-of-factly as he could. He was afraid to look at Harry; he didn’t like hearing any critical opinions when it came to his friends. Draco wondered if he would have been the same way, if he had any friends. He had never felt particularly protective of Crabbe or Goyle, but they were always more minions than friends. It was only now that he was spending so much time talking to Harry that Draco realised how lonely he had been since, well, always.

Draco was pulled out of his thoughts by Harry’s hand on his jaw, pulling him into a kiss.

“I would never let anyone hurt you,” Harry said firmly.

Draco watched the whole world stop for a moment. Or maybe it was just him that stopped while everything around him kept moving. Either way, he felt so many things at once it was a wonder he didn’t split down the middle.

“There’s that famous Harry Potter hero complex,” Draco heard himself say. Apparently his mouth spewed snide comments when left to its own devices.

“You’re a twat, Malfoy,” said Potter. He turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen before Draco managed to collect himself.

 _Fuck fuck fuck FUCK_ , thought Draco. It had been a month, and they had barely argued at all and Draco had actually started to hope that they were in the clear, that it really was different this time. Why did he always have to ruin everything? A part of him wanted to just walk out, leave the country, change his name, try to forget any of his life had ever happened. Instead, he forced himself to take three deep breaths and follow Harry into the kitchen.

Harry was rummaging through one of the cupboards and muttering angrily to himself, something along the lines of, “––can never find anything in here––“. He started slightly when Draco said, “I’m sorry.”

Harry turned to look at him. “You don’t have to apologise for how you feel about me,” he said tautly. “It’s my fault for expecting anything different.”

Draco shook his head vehemently. “That’s not how I feel about you,” he said, almost stumbling over the words in his hurry to get them out. “I mean, obviously you _do_ have a hero complex––“ Harry glared at him and Draco managed to redirect himself mid-insult. “Okay, forget that. It’s not important. I just… I don’t know how to… how to react, how to be… when you’re nice to me.” Draco found himself staring at his feet, suddenly bashful. “No one’s ever nice to me.”

“Have you considered the possibility that it’s because you make a point to be an absolute arsehole to anyone who so much as looks in your direction?” asked Harry.

That stung, all the more because Draco could see the truth in it. It wasn’t as if he _meant_ to be mean, or planned on it or anything. It just sort of… happened. It was his default, always had been, and sometimes he was barely even aware he was doing it.

Judging by the sound, Harry had gone back to rummaging through the cupboards. Draco knew he was supposed to say something now, but he didn’t know how to even begin to explain why he was like this – how could he when he didn’t have any idea himself?

“Ha!” said Harry triumphantly. “Finally. I swear Kreacher sneaks back here and reorganises the cupboards when I’m asleep or something.”

Draco looked up to see Harry holding a large bottle of wine. He didn’t recognise the label. “Kreacher?” he echoed absently.

“House elf,” Harry clarified. “Came with the house. But he works at Hogwarts now. I haven’t got any use for an elf.”

“I think it’s possible that my parents would manage to hate you even more if they heard that,” Draco said, thinking of his father’s outrage at eating food prepared by his wife.

“I don’t think you mum hates me,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I mean, she saved my life.”

Draco blinked. “She _what_?” he croaked.

“You didn’t know?” said Harry, sounding genuinely surprised. “I assumed she must have told you.”

“I can assure you she did not,” Draco managed. His head was reeling. His mother? Saving Harry’s life? When? In what circumstances would she even…? He couldn’t even think any more.

“I guess there’s a lot about the Battle that you don’t know,” said Harry. “You might want to sit down.”

So they sat down. Harry conjured some glasses and poured the wine. Draco stared blankly at the burgundy liquid, waiting for an explanation.

“I was a Horcrux,” Harry said.

“You were what?” asked Draco.

“A Horcrux. Of Vol–Tom’s. That’s the reason for everything, really. Why I have the scar, why I was connected to him, why I can speak Parseltongue. Why I didn’t die when he first tried to kill me, even. Because he accidentally made me a Horcrux instead,” Harry explained. He sounded strained, but Draco was entirely too flabbergasted to focus on that right now.

“I can see why you wouldn’t want to make this information public,” Draco said faintly.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Anyway, when I turned myself in, in the Battle, when I went to the forest—“ Draco’s chest felt tight at the memory, of knowing that Harry had saved him yet again and he now he would never have a chance to thank him, for everything, or explain anything, or tell him how he really felt… “––and he killed me.”

“You’re not dead,” Draco said stupidly.

“I’m aware, thanks,” Harry replied drily. “I was dead… for a while, I think. I can’t really explain it. I saw Dumbledore, I talked to him. But then… I came back. And the Horcrux was gone.”

Maybe Harry was insane, Draco thought absently. Maybe the stress of it all, of being the Chosen One, had driven him insane. Draco wouldn’t blame him. He suspected he wasn’t an epitome of sanity himself and whatever had happened to him was nothing compared to the reality of being Harry Potter.

“This is where your mum comes in,” Harry continued. “She was there, so… Vo–Tom asked her to check if I was really dead. Obviously I wasn’t, but she asked me… she asked me if you were alright, if you were safe. I told her yes, because as far as I knew you were. And she stood up and told everyone I was dead. She never told you?”

“No,” Draco said weakly. “She didn’t.” He decided abruptly that he was thoroughly too sober to be dealing with any of this, so he took a big gulp of his wine – and nearly choked.

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, what is this?” he coughed.

Harry looked at him, uncomprehending. He took a sip of his own wine, then looked at it and shrugged. “I don’t know, why?”

“Because it tastes like piss, is why,” said Draco, astonished that this was not entirely obvious to all parties, because he had genuinely never experienced anything so vile being referred to as wine.

“You spend a lot of time drinking piss, Malfoy?” quipped Harry, taking another sip and raising his eyebrows at Draco over the glass.

“Hilarious. Seriously where did you get this shit?” Draco demanded.

“Hey, I paid over a galleon for it,” Harry said defensively.

Draco had taken another, much more cautious, sip of wine in the vain hope that it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. He spit it back into the glass. “A _galleon_? For _wine_?” he repeated, incredulously. “Fuck, were you raised by trolls?”

Harry looked thoughtful. “Honestly, you’re not that far off,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be Mr Muggles Are People Too?” Draco inquired.

“Muggles are,” said Harry, “my aunt and uncle aren’t.”

“Okay, that’s it,” said Draco decisively. “I’ve had it with you alluding to your childhood and then refusing to talk about it. Spill it.”

Harry looked at his glass thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’m anywhere near drunk enough to get through that,” he mused.

“Then you’d better start drinking,” Draco declared.

“Only if you join me,” Harry said, grinning.

Draco grimaced. “I’ll try,” he said. “But I can’t promise I can keep this down.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in so long!! I'm back at uni now so I have less time (and energy) to write. I'm still going to finish this fic, it'll just take a bit longer is all.


	18. Chapter 18

Draco couldn’t sleep.

Of course, this was nothing new. It was more often than not that he spent several hours each night in that hazy, surreal space just between consciousness and sleep, where he wasn’t quite awake enough to be in control of his mind, but couldn’t seem to fall asleep either, so his thoughts just went around and around in circles. It had been like this for years, so long that he wasn’t sure anymore when it had started.

At least tossing and turning here was a moderate improvement from the acute loneliness of his flat. Harry’s bed was more than big enough for the both of them and absurdly comfortable, and although Draco couldn’t really see him in the dark, knowing that Harry was next to him, hearing his steady breathing, was reassuring, somehow. Sometimes when Draco’s thought spiral reached a particular depth of despair, he would reach out and find Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and try to match his breathing to his.

Except right now Harry’s breathing was shallow and erratic, and his hand twitched against Draco’s. Draco blinked his eyes open in the dark, slipping a little further into wakefulness. Sure enough, it was only moments later that the screaming started.

The first time this had happened, Draco had panicked, reaching for his wand, rolling out of bed, ready to fight whatever invisible threat was upon them. Which had made everything so much worse when Harry snapped awake, because seeing Draco with his wand drawn made it so much more difficult to convince him that the horrors of his dreams were just that, dreams.

Eventually they had both managed to calm down enough for Harry to explain, reluctantly and staring at his hands on the covers, that this was not an isolated incident. That he woke himself up screaming almost as much as Draco fell into his spirals of insomnia. As it turned out, neither of them had escaped the War unscathed.

And of course, there was so much more to Harry’s life that haunted his dreams. Every time Draco thought about what Harry had told him that first night at Grimmauld Place, he felt sick, and not just at the memory of the disgusting wine. It wasn’t as if Draco’s childhood had been exactly rosy, but at least he had had a real room, a bed to sleep in, food to eat. He had never wanted for anything. Draco thought back at eleven-year old Harry, scrawny and unkempt, and hated himself intensely for every mocking word he had ever uttered to him. The abuse Harry had suffered at the hands of those muggles – Draco would have killed them. Hell, he wanted to kill them.

No, nobody could blame Harry for screaming in his sleep. Draco was almost used to it now, enough to know what to do, at least. He reached over and shook Harry by the shoulder.

“Harry. Harry. Wake up.”

Harry jerked awake, gasping. He scrambled away from Draco, eyes darting wildly around the dark room. Draco reached out a hand to him.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said calmly, “you’re safe. It was a dream.”

Harry sat up and drew his knees up to his chest. “Fuck,” he said hoarsely.

Draco scooted closer, placing a hand on Harry’s arm. “Everything is fine. Just breathe.”

“Fuck,” Harry repeated, more empathically this time. His breath still came in short gasps and when Draco wrapped his arms around him, he could feel him trembling.

Like always, Draco felt like he should be saying something, but he knew there was nothing he could say. It would likely be a while before Harry was himself again enough to understand anything in any case. So Draco just held him and stroked his hair and tried to fight down the warm feeling of happiness that kept bubbling up inside him. Knowing that he was taking pleasure in Harry’s pain made him sick with guilt but he couldn’t help it – being here, being able to help, made Draco feel more important, more wanted than he ever had dreamed of feeling. No one had ever needed him before.

Draco waited to see which would win, the happiness or the guilt, while Harry’s breathing slowly returned to normal and his tense shape began to unravel in Draco’s arms.

After a while, Harry said, “Fuck, Draco, what the hell is wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” said Draco easily. It was a lie, an obvious one, because clearly something was very wrong with both of them, but he got away with it, because it was what Harry needed to hear, and because he was the far superior liar of the two of them. Draco sometimes felt like laughing at the faint scars spelling “I must not tell lies” still visible on the back of Harry’s hand, because he had never been able to lie for shit. And laughing at it was easier than remembering that he, Draco, had been complicit in leaving those scars.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry softly. “I wish I could stop. I’m sorry. I woke you again. Sorry.”

Draco hugged him even closer and kissed the top of his head. “I wasn’t asleep.”

“Again?” asked Harry. He pulled back and tried to look at Draco, apparently realised it was pitch dark and reached for his wand on the nightstand. “Lumos.”

Draco squinted against the light, which felt glaringly bright after the darkness, soft as it was. He didn’t want to meet Harry’s inquisitive gaze in any case.

“Draco, when was the last time you slept?” Harry asked. “Like, properly.”

Draco shrugged, half because he didn’t want to have this conversation and half because if he was being honest, he wasn’t really sure. “I’m fine,” he said. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Clearly you’re no more fine than I am,” said Harry pointedly. “Why can’t you just talk to me?”

“It’s not like you talk to me, either,” Draco protested. To drive his point home, he added, “What was the dream about?”

Harry’s expression darkened. “You know I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

“My point exactly,” said Draco flippantly.

Harry tightened his jaw, frowning. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a double entendre if I ever heard one,” he said to Harry’s puzzled expression, then watched him flush red. “Oh come on, Potter, I’m already in your bed, aren’t I?”

“I always knew you had a dirty mind,” muttered Harry.

“Spent a lot of time thinking about that, did you?” asked Draco with a smirk.

Harry swatted him. “I thought we were having a moment here,” he said reproachfully.

“We were,” said Draco, sobering. “You first.”

“Do I have to?” Harry asked.

“It was your idea,” Draco pointed out.

Harry scratched his head. “Fine. It was about Cedric,” he said, speaking quickly like he wanted to get it out before he lost his nerve.

“Cedric Diggory?” asked Draco, not understanding. “Why would you–?” Oh. Of course. Harry had been there when he died. In fact, Diggory had died _because_ he had been there with Harry. Not that Draco would ever say that out loud. Harry already blamed himself for so many deaths, this one too, no doubt.

“It was…” Harry cleared his throat and started again. “It happened so fast. One moment he was there and then just… gone. And it was my idea. That we grab the cup together. It should have just been me. Voldemort called him a spare.” Draco winced at the name, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. In the soft glow of the wand, Draco could see tears glinting in his eyes. “He didn’t have to die.”

Draco couldn’t help but wonder, of all the deaths he had endured, why was it this particular one that haunted Harry? He didn’t ask. Instead he said, “Innocent people die every day.”

Harry looked at him, incredulous. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I only meant that it wasn’t your fault,” Draco clarified, ashamed that he hadn’t even realised what his words had sounded like.

“You keep saying that,” said Harry, shaking his head. “But you don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“I don’t know what, exactly?” asked Draco. He had already learned about the Horcrux thing, about Harry’s tortured childhood. How many more secrets were there behind those impossibly green eyes?

“He was inside my head,” Harry said in a whisper, talking to himself more than to Draco now. “I was inside his head. Sometimes I feel like I still am.”

Draco bit his lip, hearing the pain, the guilt, the sheer terror in Harry’s voice. He felt so helpless at the face of it all. That Harry needed him may have been the best feeling in the world, but not being able to help was the worst. “Voldemort is dead,” he said, forcing the name out because he knew it would mean more that way.

“Sometimes I dream I’m him,” Harry went on like he hadn’t even heard Draco. He was staring at the wall behind Draco, but there was an unseeing, far-off look in his eye. “That all the things he did… I did them.” He looked at Draco suddenly. “What if… what if he isn’t really gone?” he said, his voice breaking into a sob.

Draco felt his own eyes prickling, although he wasn’t really sure why. “You killed him,” he said tearfully. “He’s dead. You’re safe. We’re all safe. You saved us.” He couldn’t go on.

Harry flung his arms around Draco, pulling him into a kiss. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you for being here.”

Draco didn’t say anything, because words had never been adequate in describing how he felt about Harry Potter. It was neither the first nor the last night that they cried each other to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write a chapter that wasn't angsty, but what would be the fun in that? Besides, if anyone has PTSD, it's going to be Harry.


	19. Chapter 19

**are you alone**

Draco frowned at his phone, wondering if Harry was trying to be seductive, and if so, why, because he knew Draco was at work.

**we need to talk**

Of course, that immediately sent Draco spiralling into a state of panic. He couldn’t pick the most devastating worst case scenario, and he was imagining them all: Harry was hurt, someone found out about them, Harry wanted to leave him…

Draco made some quick excuse about inventory to Layton and locked himself in the back room. Hand shaking, he selected Harry’s number, the only one on his phone.

“That was quick,” came Harry’s tinny voice after just one beep. “I thought you were at work.”

“I am at work,” hissed Draco, struggling to keep his voice down. “What’s going on?”

“Relax, it’s nothing serious,” Harry said cheerfully.

Draco leaned into the nearest shelf, weak with relief. Which was quickly replaced with ire. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, telling me ‘we need to talk’ in the middle of the day, if it isn’t serious?” he demanded.

“Christ, Malfoy, is there anything that doesn’t make you anxious?” asked Harry, although he did sound a bit apologetic.

“Just tell me what you want,” Draco said with a sigh. His ability to be cross with Harry was diminishing with every passing day.

“I got an owl from the Minister’s office,” said Harry.

“Are they going to give you another medal?” quipped Draco, still irritated.

“Shut up,” Harry said without missing a beat. “This is about you.”

Just like that, the cold dread returned. Draco clenched his free hand into a fist and dug his nails into his palm, preparing for the worst. He didn’t want to ask because he didn’t want to know, but there wasn’t much of a choice. “Me? What does the Minister want with me?”

Apparently he sounded just as petrified as he felt, because Harry replied, “Will you relax? You don’t always have to assume the worst immediately.”

If Harry didn’t cut to the chase soon, Draco was going to scream. “Harry.”

“Fine, fine,” Harry said, disgruntled. “He just wants to know if I know you, and if I would recommend you for a job. Apparently there’s an assistant’s position open and the Minister went on and on about how impressed--”

The rest of the sentence was lost to Draco, because all of a sudden his ears were buzzing. Slowly, he slid down into a sitting position, leaning back against a dusty box of misprinted text books. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them he would wake up and the world would make sense again, because surely being polite at one party didn’t result in a Ministry position in the real world? Especially if you were Draco Malfoy?

“Draco? You still there?” inquired Harry’s distant voice in Draco’s ear. “Draco?”

“Yeah,” Draco managed, “I’m here.”

“Are you alright? You sound weird,” said Harry, sounding concerned.

Draco opened his eyes. The back room looked the same as before. “I’m fine,” he said.

“So,” Harry said, “what should I tell him?”

Draco switched the phone to his other ear, not sure if he had heard right. “What do you mean, what should you tell him?” he demanded. Was there some alternative response that he didn’t know of, or was Harry just taunting him? Maybe it was all some kind of elaborate joke?

“Well,” said Harry patiently, “do you _want_ a Ministry job?”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss for words.

“Draco?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Draco choked.

“Possibly, as you well know,” said Harry easily, “but that’s beside the point. What do you want me to say, Draco?”

Only then it occurred to Draco that Harry was really asking, because he actually, genuinely didn’t know what Draco would say. The whole thought had seemed so ludicrous that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Harry would actually need to ask him if he wanted this. Then again, he was Harry Potter, and every door in the world was open to him. He was actually in the position to reject job offers – and he had. Anger flared in Draco’s stomach at the sheer entitlement.

“Of course I want a bloody Ministry job!” he exclaimed. “You think this is the career I had planned? I work in a fucking shop, Harry. I’d rather be getting Arthur Weasley’s coffee than spend another day in here.”

“Mind your tone about Arthur,” said Harry coldly and, too late, Draco realised what he had implied.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Force of habit.”

But the damage was done. When it came to protecting the people he cared about, Harry was a near unstoppable force and Draco knew by now that the Weasleys were the closest thing Harry had to a family. And it wasn’t as if Draco had ever really had anything against them, personally; he had only been repeating what his father had taught him. Having heard Harry talk about them so much and with so much affection, Draco definitely felt no animosity towards the Weasleys, even George. If anything, he was a little scared of them, and what they might do to him should they find out about Harry and him.

“Arthur Weasley is a better man than you father has ever even wanted to be,” said Harry. There was a threatening note in his voice, like he was daring Draco to disagree. Good thing he wasn’t inclined to.

“I know,” Draco said, “I know. I’m sorry, it just slipped. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly,” Harry said venomously.

Draco sighed. He was going to be paying for this blunder for a long time, by the looks of it. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You know,” said Harry tautly, “I have half a mind to tell the Minister the truth about you.”

Draco’s throat closed up with panic. He gasped for air, trying to hear what Harry said next, or at least hear himself think, over the hammering of his heart. If Harry was so much as thinking about telling anyone, let alone the Minister… Draco’s life was over. For the briefest moment he had seen a glimpse of hope and now there was only darkness. Not for the first time, he considered the possibility that all of this, his whole relationship with Harry had been a sham, nothing more than a way to get back at him, to punish him.

“Harry,” Draco managed to squeak, cutting Harry off mid-sentence.

“What?” demanded Harry.

“You…” Draco fumbled for words. “You can’t.”

“What?” Harry repeated, finally catching on to the terror in Draco’s voice. “Oh, you think I’d tell him…? Fuck, Draco how many times do I have to tell you that it would ruin me, too? I wasn’t talking about the _truth_ truth, you idiot, I meant the fake truth. That we hate each other.”

Draco let his head fall back against the box behind him. His heart was still hammering, but it was a little easier to breathe. So Harry wasn’t threatening to destroy his life, just this opportunity. That was a little better, but knowing that he could have this, that he could have a future after all, filled Draco with a longing that felt like a physical ache.

“You’re so bloody paranoid. Do you really think I’d do that to you?” Harry was saying in Draco’s ear.

“Harry, listen, please,” Draco said breathlessly. “If you care about me at all, please, I’m begging you, please let me have this.”

“Jesus, Malfoy,” Harry exclaimed. “Calm down. Of course I’ll say whatever you want me to say. I just wanted to make sure this was what you wanted, is all.”

Draco exhaled slowly. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Good god you are dramatic,” scoffed Harry. “And you can thank me later.” Draco could practically hear the wink. If he could find the words he would have asked how Harry could proposition him right after putting him through this emotional rollercoaster for no apparent reason.

“Draco!” came Layton’s muffled voice from the shop. “Customers!”

Draco stumbled to his feet. “I have to go,” he told Harry.

“Okay then,” Harry said, “see you later.”

“Later,” Draco muttered, already shoving the phone back into his pocket.

There was a harried-looking wizard waiting by the counter. “What does one have to do to get some service around here?” he demanded as soon as Draco stepped out of the back room. “This is unacceptable, I tell you, unacceptable!”

Draco felt his soul leave his body as his face took the form of a customer-service smile and he heard himself say, “I’m so sorry for the delay, sir. How may I help you?”

Draco got through the rest of the day on autopilot. He had discovered a long time ago how easy it actually was to carry a conversation with a customer while having no conscious knowledge of what was being said, which left relatively alone with his thoughts. Once his hands stopped shaking and he could breathe again without having to think about it, Draco realised that he felt… good. Happy, even. Something was finally going right for him. By the end of his shift, he was actually smiling, noticeably enough that Layton gave him a strange look.

That smile was wiped off his face as soon as he went out the door, because he practically walked into Harry.

“Whoah,” Harry said, catching him by the arm, “slow down.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could get a word out, Draco had shoved him into the nearest alley.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” hissed Draco, pressing Harry further into the shadows, glancing around to make sure no one could see them. “You know we can’t be seen together!”

Outrageously, Harry leaned in and kissed him. “I don’t care,” he said cheerfully, “we’re celebrating. Look, I even got champagne, the appallingly expensive kind, just how you like it.” He lifted the bottle, waving it around.

“Don’t shake it!” snapped Draco, as if that was a significant concern here.

Harry grinned. “Sorry, he said. “We’d better get home before I ruin it, then?”

Draco pressed his hands to his temples. He had neither the patience nor the energy for this. “You can’t just throw caution to the wind just because something good happened,” he said tautly.

“What’s with you today?” asked Harry, frowning. “You’re so gloomy. And overdramatic.”

“This is what I’m like every day!” snapped Draco. “I’d have thought you’d noticed by now.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you just be happy, for once? For like, an hour?”

Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it again, feeling strangely deflated, because that hit a little too close to home. “I don’t know,” he admitted softly, “I don’t know.”

Harry stepped closer and cupped his face in his hands. “Hey, look at me.” Begrudgingly, Draco did. “It’s alright. I’m not mad at you. I just––“ Suddenly, Draco saw Harry’s eyes flickered to something behind him, and the next thing he knew, he was being slammed against the wall, Harry’s hand on his throat.

“Say that again, Death Eater scum!” Harry snarled. Draco winced as the champagne slipped through Harry’s fingers and shattered on the cobblestones. Then, catching the movement of Harry’s hand going to his pocket, he instinctively pulled out his own wand, just in time to block the hex that was flung at him.

“What the hell, Potter?” he growled, shoving Harry back with both hands. He could barely hear the vicious insult he received in response over the hammering of his heart. One of two things was happening here, both equally terrifying: either Harry had completely and unexpectedly lost his mind, or there was someone else in the alley with them.

Distracted, Draco didn’t see the next spell before it hit him, knocking him backwards. He caught a brief glimpse of someone red-haired standing at the end of the alley before his head slammed against the cobbles and everything went black.

“Draco. Draco!”

Draco opened his eyes with a groan, and Harry’s face came into view, slightly out focus and twisted with concern.

“Oh thank god,” Harry breathed, pulling Draco into a much-too-tight hug. “Are you alright?”

Draco struggled out of Harry’s arms and grimaced at the throbbing in his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m not _that_ easy to kill.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said miserably. He sounded like he was about to start crying. “I… I thought you’d block… I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear.”

“I guess you’re a little better versed in defensive magic than I am,” said Draco irately, rubbing the bruised part of his skull. The he took one look at Harry’s pitiful expression and all his anger evaporated. How could he be mad at someone who was so unreasonably sorry for something that hadn’t really been that big of a deal? It made his heart hurt.

“Was it one of the Weasleys? Who showed up?” Draco asked as a conciliatory gesture.

Harry nodded enthusiastically, clearly eager to present the reasoning behind his actions.. “It was George,” he said. “I saw him, and I didn’t know what to do, I guess I panicked. I told him to piss off while you were out.”

“It was actually kind of genius,” Draco admitted. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, you are the marvellous Harry Potter, after all. The Boy Who Lived.”

“I would hex you for calling me that,” Harry said darkly, “if I hadn’t just knocked you out cold.”

“We’ll make a deal, then,” Draco said. “Whenever you hex me I get to call you The Boy—“

“Don’t make me hex you again,” Harry interrupted. Then he looked away, running a hand through his even-messier-than-usual hair. “You’re really not upset?”

“I’m a little upset about the champagne,” Draco said, looking forlornly at the shards of broken glass.

“I’ll get you a new one,” promised Harry. “Hell, I’ll get you ten if you let me get the reasonably priced kind.”

“Like you can’t afford the good kind,” said Draco.


	20. Chapter 20

It was way too crowded and the music was far too loud, but Draco was drunk as hell so for once he didn’t care.

He had fought Harry every step of the way on this party, from the initial idea over breakfast one morning, through a full three weeks of planning, up until an hour-long row last night over whether or not he was obligated to be here. Draco had insisted that it was Harry’s house and he was free to do with it as he will, but Draco would be damned if he would show his face at another Gryffindor party after what happened at the Patils. Harry had pointed out that it wasn’t a Gryffindor party, because in case Draco hadn’t noticed, they were adults and no longer in Hogwarts, and besides he would personally curse anyone that tried to lay their hands on Draco. To which Draco had said that that would likely raise a lot of unwanted questions, considering the fact that they were known enemies who had been seen fighting in public multiple times in the past few weeks. Which, by the way, they wouldn’t have to keep doing if Harry could just adhere to the bloody rules for once in his life, thank you very much.

Then the fight had turned, for want of a better word, physical. Which, apparently, was becoming a pattern in their relationship. Not that Draco was complaining, exactly. Except that in this case, some time later, he had been sleepy and much too content for his own good, so when Harry had brought up the party again, he had said yes. Just to get him to shut up. Or that was what he was telling himself, anyway.

It wasn’t so bad in the end, Draco reflected, knocking down the last of his disgustingly sweet cocktail. Whoever was manning the bar wouldn’t have known a sophisticated drink if Draco threw it in their face.

Draco frowned. What had he been thinking about?

Right, the party.

Yes, it wasn’t quite as bad as he had thought it would be. Sure, it was loud, and full of people, people who hated Draco’s guts, nonetheless. But Harry had made sure there was enough to drink for at least triple the amount of people, which meant that everyone was various stages of completely and utterly pissed. Besides, everyone was in costume, so most people didn’t seem to notice that Draco was, in fact, Draco. He had almost hexed Harry when he had presented the costume. Apparently it was beyond hilarious to have Draco dress up as Godric Gryffindor. His father would have a stroke if he knew. Meanwhile Harry was going as a Quidditch player, despite Draco’s protests that it wasn’t a costume if it was just Quidditch gear he already owned.

It was late, although Draco had no idea how late, exactly. The party was still in full swing, although the crowd had begun to disperse into other parts of the house, which Harry had paid some house-elves from Hogwarts to come clean for the occasion. The concept still seemed strange to Draco: paying house elves. He had been quite fond of Dobby as a boy, but come on. They were just one step above pets, really.

Draco shook his head, irritated at how difficult it was to hold onto his train of thought.

People were dancing. Badly, drunkenly, bumping into each other, bursting into spontaneous laughter. In a corner, a dementor was snogging a cat. What a strange sentence, on any night besides Halloween. The music was still too loud, and to add insult to injury, some muggle song Draco didn’t recognise and that seemed a bit too melancholy to be dancing to like that. He wondered where Harry was. He hadn’t seen him for hours. It was lonely, avoiding each other in the crowds.

“Draco,” said a voice in his ear.

Draco swivelled around, entirely too fast for how drunk he was. He fell straight into Harry’s arms.

“Hey, Harry,” Draco said. Or slurred, apparently. His tongue felt uncooperative. “Was just thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

Harry laughed. “Do you want to dance?” he asked.

“What?” said Draco. “With you?”

“Yes, with me,” said Harry.

“But…” Draco gestured vaguely around the room, struggling to express his concern. “Everyone… is here.”

“Sure,” said Harry. “But there just as pissed as you are. See? No one’s looking at us.”

Draco looked and realised it was true. No one seemed the slightest bit interested in their host or who he was talking to.

“I told you it would be fine,” Harry said smugly. He captured Draco’s wrists, one in each hand. “Now dance with me.”

So they danced, and hands in hands quickly became hands on shoulders and then hands around waists and then Draco was leaning in to kiss Harry in the middle of a crowded room. Which was when Harry took him by the hand and dragged him out of the room, up the stairs and into his bedroom.

The door was barely closed behind them before Draco had Harry pressed up against it, bringing their lips together, their arms tangling around each other. Then Harry took a step forward and Draco stumbled back, laughing against Harry’s lips, pulling him with him as the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell backwards into the soft mattress.

Harry sat up, straddling Draco, unclasping the ridiculous Godric Gryffindor cloak. Draco propped himself up on his shoulders, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and pulling him into another kiss.

Which was when the door opened to the sound of “Harry? Are you in—Bloody hell.”

With the lightning reflexes of a Seeker slash Saviour of the Wizarding World, Harry rolled off of Draco, giving him a clear view of a very startled Ron Weasley standing in the doorway. Draco covered his face with his hands, completely too drunk to process this level of terrible.

“Close the bloody door, would you, Ron?” hissed Harry.

Draco heard the door click shut. There was a long, strained silence, possibly the most painful event in the history of mankind. Finally, Weasley said, “When were you going to tell me about this, then?”

Draco opened his eyes just enough to peer out from between his fingers. Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed and Weasley was hovering awkwardly by the door, his hand still on the handle. Finding no sign of immediate harm, Draco lowered his hands and sat up.

“ _That’s_ your concern?” Harry said weakly, echoing Draco’s thoughts. “That I didn’t tell you?

Weasley made a face. “Well, honestly, I don’t know how in the bloody hell you’d ever be willing to touch this annoying git, but I’m sure you’ll come up with some extenuating circumstances.”

“Granger been teaching you big words, Weasley?” spat Draco and then bit down on his tongue. He really, really could do without escalating this situation. Not that it could be much more escalated. The best he could hope for was the end of this relationship and not also his life.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry and Weasley said in unison, almost automatically. Just like old times, Draco thought bitterly.

“That’s still not what I thought you’d be worried about,” said Harry.

A dawn of realisation spread across Weasley’s stupid, freckled face. “Oh, what, you mean the whole snogging blokes as well as girls thing?” he said.

Harry nodded, glancing at Draco, who tried his best to look reassuring and only managed completely petrified.

“Yeah,” said Weasley sheepishly, “Ginny told us about that months ago. ‘Mione and me. Lectured us for an hour about being supportive, too. We’ve been waiting for you to tell us, though.”

“Bloody Ginny…” muttered Harry.

“Oi, mate, that’s my sister,” protested Weasley.

“So you know better than anyone how much she can’t mind her own business,” Harry said.

Weasley grimaced. “Okay, fair enough,” he said.

There was another excruciating, stretched-out silence. Draco tried his hand at wandless magic in a feeble attempt to light himself on fire just so he didn’t need to take another second of this. It was hard to tell which of the three of them looked most uncomfortable. Weasley’s ears were scarlet.

“Honestly, Harry, I don’t care about the... bisexual thing. Neither does Hermione. We just want you to be happy.” said Weasley after a while. Draco gaped at him, his mouth falling open. Here was this thing they had been hiding for months, _years_ if you counted what happened in Hogwarts, and Weasley was going to just… be fine with it?

“But…” Weasley continued, “does it have to be _him_?”

And there it was, the reason why this was the end for Draco, one way or the other. Even if Harry had grown tolerant of him, for whatever reason, his friends would never, ever accept this, and there was no way in hell Harry would ever choose Draco over them. Knowing this was so crushing that Draco barely noticed Harry turning to look at him, taking his hand and then turning back to Weasley.

“You have a problem with Draco?” asked Harry, the threat in his voice unmistakable.

Weasley looked taken aback. “You–you’ve hated him your entire life, Harry,” he stammered. “I thought _you_ had a problem with ‘Draco’.” He said Draco’s name like it was the name of a particularly nasty disease.

“Yeah,” said Harry fiercely, “the problem is that I love him.”

“ _What_?” said Weasley and Draco in unison, Weasley’s an incredulous exclamation, Draco’s more of a startled squeak.

Harry turned to Draco, capturing his hands in his, and looked him in the eye. “I do,” he said softly, as if Weasley wasn’t even in the room, “I love you.”’

There was a sharp, acute pain in Draco’s chest. He looked away, unwilling to see the lie in Harry’s eyes. He understood that Harry was trying to make a point to Weasley, but this… this was just cruel. Maybe Harry didn’t understand that, with all his friends and adoring fans and all the people that had taken him under their wing over the years, maybe he just didn’t realise how significant those words were to Draco, because no one loved him. No one ever had. Maybe his mother thought she did, but she didn’t really know the first thing about who Draco actually was, she only saw what she wanted to see, both of his parents did. Draco didn’t want to – he couldn’t – hear Harry say that, because he wanted so desperately for it to be true.

“No you don’t,” Draco said, painfully aware that Weasley could also hear the way his voice cracked.

Harry caught Draco’s jaw and forced him to look at him again. He was a better liar than Draco had given him credit for, because he looked entirely sincere.

“Yes, I do,” Harry insisted. “I love you.”

Suddenly Draco found himself considering the possibility that he was telling the truth, that he meant it. He felt like he was going to implode.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a whisper, tears gathering in his eyes despite his best efforts.

“What kind of a question is that?” said Harry, taken aback. “Of course I’m sure.”

Draco broke. He flung his hands around Harry, hugging him close, Weasley be damned. “I love you, too,” he said tearfully into Harry’s shoulder, “I love you too.”

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and stroked his hair. “You are so strange,” he said affectionately.

Weasley cleared his throat. Draco tried to break away from the embrace, but Harry kept him there.

“Okay,” Weasley said shakily, “this… this is really fucking weird and it’s–it’s freaking me out, so I’m just… going to go now. Catch you later, Harry.”

Draco heard the door open and then close again. Cautiously, he pulled back enough to look at Harry. Harry looked back at his tear-streaked face for a moment. Then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Draco found himself laughing, too, from sheer exhaustion, even if he had no idea what was so funny.

“I should probably go talk to him,” Harry said, wheezing. He kissed Draco lightly. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know, too long since I updated. And I had this chapter sitting around, too, I just forgot I never posted it. Anyways, I've been meaning to ask, is anyone interested in seeing a drawing of Draco I made because I can post it at the end of the next chapter or something.


	21. Chapter 21

Draco had the feeling this was becoming a pattern. Harry would suggest something insane, Draco would tell him no, that’s insane, Harry would argue, or sulk, or worst of all, resort to smiling and saying ‘I love you’, and then Draco would be forced to do something insane. The Halloween party hadn’t even been the worst of it.

Like, for instance, Harry had decided that they would have lunch together at the Leaky Cauldron. Now that Draco worked at the Ministry, he insisted, they could pass it off as a business lunch, if anyone saw them together. _When_ anyone saw them together, obviously, since literally even every child in the wizarding world could recognise Harry’s face pretty much before they could talk. Draco really shouldn’t have needed to point this out. Harry couldn’t be _that_ oblivious to his stature as the world’s greatest hero, could he?

“Harry. No,” Draco had muttered into his pillow. “You think you can trick me by bringing this up when I’m half asleep?”

He had felt the soft puff of air of Harry’s laugh against the back of his neck. “Worth a shot.”

Draco had rolled over, propping his head up on one elbow. “We may have been lucky so far,” he had said, seriously, “but it’s just been luck, make no mistake. We can’t be careless.”

“Draco, we literally slept together in a house full of our entire Hogwarts class, and then some,” Harry had said, sounding annoyingly casual. “I think we’re a little past careless.”

Draco had rolled his eyes. “So your solution is to be more careless?”

“It’s the Gryffindor way,” Harry had said, grinning.

Draco sighed, returning to organizing his already tidy desk for the third time to put off lunch just a few more minutes. He wished that sometimes they could do things the Slytherin way, for a change.

Maybe it _was_ going to be fine, Draco told himself as he reluctantly left the office and headed for the Cauldron. Maybe people would actually buy this story about a business lunch. What other conceivable reason was there to see Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy together, anyway? A homosexual relationship was not a conclusion most wizards would jump to; Draco reminded himself that he hadn’t even known such a thing existed before he was sixteen, and that was only because Harry knew based on some muggle… thing. It would probably be fine. Probably.

Draco entered the Cauldron, spotted Harry in a booth, spotted the two other people sitting with him, and came to the conclusion that it would not be fine. It would be so far from fine that he only barely managed to stop himself from turning on his heels and bolting. Gritting his teeth and digging his nails into his palms, he made his way over to the table.

“Granger,” he said tautly, “Weasley.”

Weasley greeted him with a profoundly awkward nod. Granger jumped to her feet and smoothed down her skirt nervously. “Hello, Mal–“ she glanced at Harry “–Draco.”

“Hello,” said Draco curtly. His heart was pounding and he knew he was supposed to be nice or he would hurt Harry’s feelings but he was scared. He had to be cold and hard like ice to protect himself against whatever was about to happen.

“Here,” Granger said, moving to Weasley’s side of the table, “you sit with Harry.”

As he slid into his seat, Draco said, “Quite right, wouldn’t want either of you to have to sit next to the Death Eater.”

Granger flushed. Weasley wrapped an arm around her, glaring at Draco. Draco bit the inside of his lip, knowing he had fucked up already.

“About that,” said Harry. “You’re not a Death Eater. Hermione is not a mudblood. Ron and his family are not blood traitors. Are we agreed?” He spoke quietly but the edge in his voice was enough to let them know that this was non-negotiable.

“Agreed,” said Granger eagerly.

“Yeah,” Draco said, trying his best to sink through the floor out of sheer shame thinking of all the times he had called them those things.

Still glaring at Draco, apparently the only one who was aware how unworthy he was of forgiveness, Weasley nodded.

“Good,” said Harry. He took Draco’s hand under the table, but Draco shook him off and gave him a Look. They were in public, for Merlin’s sake.

“You–” Draco cleared his throat “–you didn’t mention they’d be joining us, Harry.”

“Still bloody bizarre hearing him say ‘Harry’ like that,” muttered Weasley, apparently to no one in particular. Granger elbowed him in the ribs.

“You never would have agreed to it if I had told you,” Harry said. Which was true, of course.

“If you this about it,” Granger said quickly, “us being here too makes this a lot less conspicuous.” That, Draco realised, was also true. Then again, this was Granger, so he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

“Would one of you mind telling me what the fuck this is about?” asked Weasley. Granger and Harry gave him equally disapproving looks and Draco wondered briefly how he had survived all these years if those two ganged up on him like this often.

“I’m with Weasley,” Draco said and regretted it immediately, as the full force of the Potter-Granger glare team descended upon him. He had always shrunk back faced with Harry’s anger, but there was a time when he would have returned it with a hex. Now he just felt ashamed and pathetic. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s fine,” said Harry with a sigh. “It’s just… I’m trying to do something nice here.”

Draco tried to imagine a context in which being ambushed by Granger and Weasley at lunch could be construed as a something nice, and came up with nothing. He kept his eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden table top, unwilling to meet anyone’s eye.

“Harry told me about the Mark,” said Granger softly.

Draco’s head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He stared first at Granger, wide-eyed and speechless, and then turned to Harry at his side. It was all Draco could do to not scream. _Don’t make a scene_ , he told himself, _people will see. Don’t make a scene. “_ You did _what_?”

“Just hear her out, Draco,” said Harry wearily. He didn’t even look sorry, like he didn’t even understand the scope of this betrayal. Like he didn’t understand that just because Granger and Weasley were his friends, didn’t mean they were, or even could be, Draco’s.

This was the darkest, most painful, most shameful part of Draco’s life, something he had never talked about with anyone, anyone but Harry. It wasn’t as if Draco had asked him not to tell anyone, because it had never occurred to him that Harry would do that. Draco wanted to scream, or cry, or hex all of them, or potentially all of the above, but he was painfully aware of all the eyes on them, of all the eyes that followed Harry wherever he went. So Draco just sat there, paralysed by self-pity.

“He said you want to get rid of it,” Granger continued nervously.

Weasley grunted. “As he bloody well should.”

“Ron, can you not make this harder than it already is?” exclaimed Harry.

“Sorry, mate,” Weasley said gruffly. “Still trying to wrap my head around–“ he gestured vaguely at Draco and Harry “–all this.”

“Ron, you promised,” Granger said. The two of them exchanged a look containing a wordless conversation the likes of which Draco had only ever seen take place between old married couples. Apparently they came to some compromise, because Granger turned back to Draco.

“May I?” Without waiting for a response, Granger reached across the table and grabbed Draco’s left wrist, drawing it towards her and pulling back his sleeve to reveal the mark. Her hands were small and warm, but her grip was firm, firm enough to keep hold of his arm even as Draco recoiled. Evidently oblivious to his discomfort, Granger prodded the scarred skin around the Mark. “I trust you’ve tried the obvious spells,” she said thoughtfully.

“The spells, the charms, the potions,” said Draco quietly. He wasn’t over the shock or the sense of betrayal, far from it, but there was also a glimmer of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, Hermione Granger, the most brilliant witch the world had seen in centuries, would be able to fix what Draco had failed to. “Anything I could think of.”

Granger nodded. “I figured as much. You’re a capable wizard,” she said absently. Everyone around the table turned to stare at her in shock at the compliment, but she didn’t seem to notice, a look of intense concentration about her. She pulled out her wand and tapped at the Mark, muttering a few incantations under her breath. An unpleasant tingle travelled up Draco’s arm.

“I thought so,” said Granger thoughtfully. She released Draco’s arm and looked up at him. “I wouldn’t have expected anything that simple to work. I’ve done some digging.”

“And?” said Harry anxiously, before Draco had even processed the fact that Granger was legitimately trying to help him. Him, who had called her a mudblood for years, who she had punched in the face not that many years ago.

Granger shook her head and Draco’s heart sank. “Honestly, there’s not much. So many Death Eaters are either dead or in Azkaban. I don’t think there’s a whole lot of repenting ones, honestly.” She smiled nervously at Draco. “You’re a bit of a rarity.”

Draco was adrift. He had no idea how to navigate this situation and his head was filled with a dull buzz. It was impossible to think clearly. He wanted to be anywhere but here and anyone but him. He barely felt Harry’s hand closing around his under the table.

Granger, apparently, was still talking. “Historically speaking, the Mark as a magical artefact isn’t quite as unique as you might think. Similar things have been done by various organisations over the years. Unfortunately, there’s very little written about removing something like this. I suppose it has never really been a priority. In any case, I’m afraid the best we’ve got is a couple of educated guesses.”

That did it, the use of “we”. The most legendary “we” since the Founders of Hogwarts, the Golden Trio. Now including Draco Malfoy, just like that, like it was nothing and there wasn’t a lifetime of animosity and a war on opposing sides between them. Surely Draco did not deserve this grace. To his horror, he was blinking back tears.

“But you do have guesses?” asked Harry.

“There’s a couple of things that might work, but I can’t promise anything,” Granger replied.

Draco was frozen. He knew he needed to get the hell away from here, now, but everything was just… too much. He couldn’t move. A single tear rolled down his cheek. And of course, because the universe hated him, Weasley had been keeping a close eye on him.

“Malfoy,” Weasley said slowly, “are you… crying?”

“No,” said Draco, angrily dragging his sleeve across his eyes. “I have allergies. I bet this shithole has mould.”

Even if Weasley and Granger would have bought it, which they probably wouldn’t have because of how obvious a lie it was, Harry knew that Draco didn’t have allergies. And in his tried and true way, he could never just let it go.

“Draco, you alright?”

All of this was Harry’s fault, really. He had dragged Draco here against his will, and then ambushed him with Granger and Weasley without any kind of warning. “In what world would any of this be alright?” Draco snapped.

Weasley looked almost satisfied, like this had been exactly what he had been anticipating from Draco. Ingratitude and discourtesy. Draco did know that that was what he was being, because they were only trying to help him, despite how little he deserved it. But it was so much easier to be angry than to admit how disgusted he was with himself.

Once again misreading the situation, Granger said, “Don’t give up yet, I’ve only been looking at this for just over a week. I’ll figure it out eventually, for sure.”

“It isn’t about that,” Draco said in a small voice. “I already gave up on that months ago.”

“Then what’s wrong?” demanded Harry.

Draco shook his head, not even knowing where to start. “Look, I know you all want to help me, because, because it’s what you do, you help people, save people, whatever.”

“That’s not what this–“ Granger interrupted, but Draco waved her into silence.

“No, listen,” he said. “You want to save me from the past, or, or myself, or something, and I suppose I ought to be grateful, but Harry’s already saved me more times than I deserve and I don’t need any of this. I don’t need you to pretend to tolerate me because I’m with Harry. I certainly don’t need you to help me with this.” Draco buried his face in his hands. “Just leave me alone,” he concluded.

There was a silence. Then Granger said, “If that’s what you really want…”

“No,” said Weasley firmly, much to the surprise of everyone. Draco lowered his hands, looking at him incredulously.

“I think Malfoy’s a prat,” Weasley said. “And honestly being friends with him is the last thing I want.”

“I’m right here, you know,” said Draco half-heartedly. As much as he had been expecting to be attacked by Weasley, it still hurt to know how little chance there was of Harry’s friends ever accepting him.

“Shut up, Malfoy, and let me finish,” said Weasley. “I don’t want to be friends with you, but whether or not it’s because he’s been hit by a bludger a few times too many, Harry likes you, so I’ve promised I’m going to make an effort to like you, too. And I’m bloody well not going to give up before I’ve even tried. So we’re not leaving you alone, and you’re going to fix the damn Mark, ‘Mione.”

All of them, Weasley included, were too stunned by this outburst to argue, so Granger got to work with, trying half a dozen charms, spells and hexes none of them had ever heard of. None of them did anything other than hurt to varying degrees. Eventually she had to admit defeat, but she promised to return to her books for round two. Still, by the time they had eaten lunch and Granger had done all her tricks, there was an actual conversation taking place between the four of them.

Draco returned to work at the end of his lunch break, still marked as a Death Eater, but feeling strangely giddy.

END OF CHAPTER

bonus: I got a grand total of one request to see it, so here is my glorious art of Draco the Drama Queen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No proofreading; we die like men – stupidly and pointlessly. :D


	22. Chapter 22

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Draco couldn’t breathe. “Merlin, Harry, this is such a bad idea, this is… I can’t… fuck.”

Harry squeezed his hand. “Draco, look at me,” he said steadily. “Just breathe.”

Draco tried, but all he could manage was an inhale like a gasp and an exhale like a whimper. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, “fuck, Harry, I can’t do this.”

“It’s fine to be scared,” said Harry. “Hell, I’m petrified,” he added with a nervous laugh.

“Please,” said Draco, “let’s just go home.”

Harry shook his head, determined. “No, you said it yourself. It’s only a matter of time before it hits the papers and it’s better they hear it from you.”

Draco hated that reasoning, all the more because he knew how true it was. Now that practically all of Harry’s friends knew, it wouldn’t before long before someone slipped up, mentioned the wrong thing to the wrong person, and the news started to spread. That Harry Potter was shagging Draco Malfoy. That they were practically living together, Draco’s tiny flat all but abandoned. That, most unbelievably, they were in love.

Still, Draco couldn’t help but think that he had been overcome by a sudden bout of insanity when, a week ago, he had run into his mother outside the Ministry.

“Draco!” she had shouted from across the street, rushing over to embrace him. As if the world needed a reminder of Draco My-Father-Will-Hear-About-This Malfoy.

“You haven’t responded to my owls,” Narcissa had said accusatorily. “I expect you’ll still be coming to Christmas dinner.”

“Yes, mother,” he had said dutifully. And then the insanity had kicked in. “Actually, I was wondering… can I bring someone?”

His mother’s face had lit up and she had smiled, actually smiled, like Draco hadn’t seen her do in years. “Oh, Draco!” she had squealed. “You’ve finally met someone! Of course you can bring her!”

By which point Draco had imagined the sheer horror on his parents’ faces when they realised the someone he had met was not only not a ‘her’, but also Harry Potter, of all people. Which was when he had nearly thrown up in the middle of the street. And of course it had been far too late to back out.

Harry tugged on Draco’s hand. “Come on. I’m right here with you,” he said.

Draco laughed, bordering on hysteria. “That’s kind of the problem, don’t you think?”

Somehow Harry managed to coax him to the front door and somehow Draco pulled himself together. He shook his hand out of Harry’s and took a step further away from him.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really,” Draco replied tautly.

It didn’t go as Draco had expected. It was worse. So much worse than he could have ever imagined, and he had done little but imagine it for the past week.

Narcissa answered the door. As soon as she saw Draco standing there with Harry, her face fell, shifting from smile to confusion to disappointment. Every cell in Draco’s body was screaming at him to run while he still could. Still, there was little else to do but follow his mother inside, to take off his cloak, to show Harry into the library as if they weren’t walking into the dragon’s lair.

If his mother’s reaction to seeing Harry had been bad, his father’s was infinitely worse. He lowered the _Prophet_ and rose to greet them, as collected and politely expressionless as ever. But Draco had been raised by this man and he knew the calm before the storm when he saw it, and right now clouds were gathering, fast.

“Mr. Potter,” said Lucius smoothly, “what a pleasant surprise.”

Whatever Harry had been expecting, clearly it wasn’t this. Draco watched his eyebrows shoot up and suppressed a grimace. In all of his panicking, Draco had neglected to properly prepare Harry for the psychological warfare of life in the Manor. It was hopelessly too late for that now.

“It’s… um…” Harry faltered, apparently looking for the correct way to politely address a man that had tried to kill him multiple times. “Good to see you, Mr. Malfoy,” he finished somewhat feebly. He turned to Narcissa. “And you as well, Mrs. Malfoy, of course. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Draco echoed half-heartedly. It took an elbow in the ribs from Harry for him to remember to hand over the bottle of wine they had brought.

“Thank you,” said Narcissa flatly. “Shall we eat, then?”

Miraculously, they managed to get almost halfway through the main course without any bloodshed. Draco was vaguely aware that there was a profoundly awkward conversation taking place, and that he was a part of it, but he couldn’t really hear anything over the hammering of his heart. He had trouble eating with how much his hands were shaking, not that he had any semblance of an appetite in any case.

Of course it was only a matter of time before things took a turn for the worse.

“So, Mr. Potter, what are you doing these days?” said Lucius. His tone was casual but the glint in his eye suggested he already knew the answer. Draco winced. He knew this was a sore spot for Harry and he would no doubt take the question as a deliberate slight. Which, to be fair, it probably was, as ridiculous as that sounded considering Lucius had never worked a day in his life.

“I’m sort of in between things at the moment,” Harry replied tautly. “But I’m sure you’ve read that in the papers.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lucius in mock delight. “None of us can forget how famous you are, of course.”

Harry flushed crimson at that. “That’s… that isn’t what I meant,” he stammered.

“Rest assured, Mr Potter,” said Lucius with a humourless laugh, “I know exactly what you meant.”

                      Narcissa, at least, had the presence of mind to avoid an overt fight between her husband and Harry. Maybe she feared for the fate of the good china. “Draco dear,” she said a little louder than necessary, “how is your work at the Ministry?”

Draco shot her a thankful look. “It’s going well, mother,” he said. “The Minister seems to like me.” He was only ever expected to share successes, of course, but this time it wasn’t even a lie. Draco wasn’t sure why, but the Minister did, in fact, seem to have taken him under his wing, and he wasn’t about to complain.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Narcissa said. “We’re very proud of you, of course.”

She shot her husband a pointed look, and he rolled his eyes. “Very proud,” he echoed caustically.

There were no major disasters for the remainder of the meal, although the conversation was, if at all possible, even more awkward. Draco thought he actually felt his soul leave his body when Harry actually thanked Narcissa for saving his life in the Battle. Draco really should have told him that nothing of substance was to be discussed in the Malfoy dining room, ever.

Still, Draco was almost starting to hope that maybe they had gotten away with this when Lucius turned to Narcissa and said, “Darling, why don’t you show Mr. Potter around. Draco, a word in my study, please.”

Harry, bless him, looked like he was going to protest, clearly not recognising the command for what it was, however poorly disguised. Draco supposed he couldn’t blame him – Harry hadn’t grown up in polite society, he didn’t know any better. Draco, on the other hand… he was raised on backhanded compliments and veiled threats. He shot Harry a look, which he at least understood.

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said politely.

“Not at all,” replied Narcissa. “It would be my pleasure.”

As the two of them left the room, Draco rose obediently. Trying to shake the feeling that he was headed for the gallows, he followed his father into the study.

“What,” hissed Lucius as soon as the door had closed behind them, “do you think you’re doing?”

Draco hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was covered in a cold sweat. There was really no way to play this that would work in his favour, he knew, but he had promised Harry he would try, at least. “Mother said I could bring someone,” he said innocently.

“As little as I like having that brat in my home, befriending Harry Potter is not altogether a bad play,” Lucius admitted. “Merlin knows how you managed it – you failed so spectacularly as a child.” His expression darkened and Draco shrunk back, wanting nothing more than to run. “What I don’t understand, however, is why you would lie to your mother and make her believe you finally found someone. You know how much she wants that for you, Draco. You should know better than to insult her like this, after all she’s done for you.”

“I didn’t lie to her,” said Draco quietly. He clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “I did find someone.”

“And what, you managed to make a mess of it in the past week, so you brought Potter, instead?” his father asked maliciously.

Draco didn’t think he had ever been so afraid, not even when he was certain the Dark Lord would kill him and his entire family. But he had to do this, he had to say it. If he was ever going to do it, it had to be now.

“No,” he said, his voice faltering. He cleared his throat. “Father, Harry is… he is ‘someone’.” Draco gripped the edge of a bookshelf. He thought he might pass out – the room was spinning and he wasn’t sure he remembered how to breathe.

Lucius looked genuinely confused. Which, of course, would only make him angrier, because he didn’t like feeling confused. He always had to be in control. “You aren’t making any sense, Draco,” he snapped.

Merlin, he was really going to make Draco say it, wasn’t he? This was all a mistake, a huge mistake. Draco couldn’t do this, of course he couldn’t do this, and why in the bloody hell would he even want to? His eyes stung with tears, as if all of this wasn’t horrifying enough without his father seeing him cry.

“Draco. Explain yourself,” Lucius demanded.

With no idea where he got the strength, Draco drew a shuddery breath and said it. “We’re together. Harry and I. An item. Involved. However you want to put it.”

Unable to look away, Draco watched his father go pale, and then slowly turn purple with rage. He raised his hand and slapped Draco across the face, the wandless hex reaching him from across the room. Draco was too paralysed to even flinch.

“If this is some kind of joke,” Lucius snarled, “ _it isn’t funny_.”

Draco just shook his head feebly, certain that he couldn’t have gotten it out even if he could have thought of something to say.

His father slapped him a second time. He seemed to be at a loss for words as well. “Of all the… shameless… vulgar… _disgusting_ things…”

Draco closed his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek. He was about ready to die now.

And Lucius wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. “Please tell me that you’re saying this just to spite me,” he growled. “Because if you aren’t… You’ve always been a disappointment, Draco, weak, cowardly, crying like a little girl, but this… I never imagined you would be capable of something so, so _vile_. It’s a bloody abomination, is what it is.”

“The only abomination here is you, Lucius.”

They both turned to look at the doorway. Draco had no idea how long Harry had been standing there, he hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Stay out of it, Potter,” Lucius hissed. “This is none of your business.”

“As long as you’re speaking to my boyfriend like that, I think it’s very much my business,” Harry retorted. His hands were clenched into fists and his eyes were flaming.

“ _Boyfriend_?” Lucius spat, like the word tasted foul.

“You heard me,” said Harry, voice taut with barely contained rage.

In a few strides Lucius was towering over Harry. “Hero or not,” he said icily, “it would be in your best interest to stay away from my family.”

“Was that a threat?” asked Harry. Draco saw his hand slip into his pocket, no doubt searching for his wand.

“It was a warning.”

Harry barked out a laugh. “A warning of what, exactly?” he snapped. “You may have been able to bully me once, Lucius, but I’m not a child. You must realise, you’ve got no power here, not any more. Maybe you need a reminder that I’m the one who got you out of Azkaban. Speak to Draco like that again and I’ll make sure you’re back there before you’re done talking.”

Lucius closed his hands around Harry’s neck and slammed him into the wall. “You think you can come into my home and talk to me like that, boy?” he snarled.

Harry opened his mouth but could only manage a choked noise.

“Stop,” Draco heard himself say, “stop! You’re hurting him!”

Lucius let go of Harry and turned the full force of his fury to Draco. “You’re defending this muggle-loving blood traitor?” he thundered. “After all he’s done to this family, you would choose him over us, who raised you, fed you, put a roof over your head?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” shouted Draco, his voice thick with tears, “I’m a grown fucking man and I can put a fucking roof over my own bloody head.”

“Oh, so he’s not putting you up, then?” asked Lucius, gesturing vaguely in Harry’s direction. “He’s not paying for you like the whore you are?”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything about us! You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know I raised you better than this… freak-show!”

“Maybe you did,” Draco said hoarsely, “but this is who I am.” He looked over Lucius’s shoulder at Harry, who was gripping his wand in one hand and rubbing his bruised neck with the other, shaking with rage. “I love him, and he loves me, and nothing you can say is going to change that.”

Draco looked his father in the eye, defiant. Lucius met his stare with one of pure contempt and revulsion, and Draco crumbled under the weight of it. He closed his eyes and choked back a sob.

“Then I have no son.”

It would have been better, Draco thought as he stumbled blindly through the Manor, if he had said it in anger, shouted it. But he said it calmly, quietly, entirely devoid of emotion. It wasn’t an insult, it wasn’t meant to hurt Draco, it was a fact, a simple, undisputable truth. Draco no longer had a father and that was the beginning and the end of it.

“Draco, wait!”

Draco gave up trying to find his cloak and headed straight for the door. He couldn’t talk right now, not to anyone, not even Harry. Harry would try to help him, console him, make him feel better, and there was no feeling better.

“Where is he going? Lucius? What happened in there?”

Draco slammed the door open. It was dark outside, but the drive was covered in a fresh layer of snow. Scattered flakes fluttered to the ground around him as he ran into the frigid night, not knowing or caring where he was going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this was genuinely hard to write. But realistically, how else was Lucius going to react?


	23. Chapter 23

Draco had no idea what time it was when he finally dragged himself up the steps to Harry’s door, just that it was late. He must have been out for hours. His face was numb with the cold and he couldn’t feel his fingers or his ears. The wind had picked up and it was blowing right through him, especially without a cloak to keep him warm. That was why he was back here, really, because of the cold. He certainly didn’t want to talk to Harry. Or anyone. Ever again.

He probably should have just gone home, Draco thought as he tried to get the door unlocked, struggling to hold onto the keys with his numb fingers. Except that Grimmauld Place felt so much more like home now than his dingy flat ever had. Or the Manor for that matter. The keys slipped out of Draco’s hand and clattered to the floor. He screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands. Thinking of the Manor made him feel sick to the stomach. Nauseous and exhausted. So exhausted that he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the keys, to try to unlock the door again. It felt so much easier to just freeze to death.

The door opened and Draco was blinded by the light in the hall after wandering in the dark for so long. He barely had time to blink before Harry had dragged him inside by his collar.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” Harry growled, slamming the door shut behind them.

Draco shrugged. He was too tired to try to remember.

“I couldn’t find you anywhere! I looked for hours!”

Draco became vaguely aware that Harry was shouting at him. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he probably deserved it, so he let it happen.

Harry grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Draco! Are you even listening?”

With some effort Draco focused his eyes on Harry’s face. He looked furious. With good reason, Draco realised, considering he had abandoned him at the Manor with a Lucius who was out for blood. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Suddenly Harry’s arms were wrapped around him, so tightly it hurt. Draco didn’t care; he was freezing and Harry was so warm. He shivered and leaned into him, cold and tired and empty.

Harry pulled back and cupped Draco’s face in his hands. Only then Draco realised that Harry was sobbing, that his hands were shaking.

“I thought you were dead,” Harry said hoarsely, “God, Draco, I thought you were dead.”

Draco blinked. His brain was sleepy and sluggish, every thought a struggle. He didn’t want to think, he never wanted to have another thought in his life. He just wanted to enjoy the feeling of the warmth of Harry’s hands slowly bringing feeling back to his face. “What,” he said flatly, because he had to say something.

“I was sure that you were dead. I couldn’t find you and I tried to call you and I couldn’t stop thinking about what you did before, what you did in sixth year, and I was so, so afraid that you did something… that you hurt yourself. That I lost you too, like I lose everyone.” Harry hugged Draco close again, kissing his jaw, his neck, his brow.

“I thought about it,” said Draco, because he had. He remembered standing on a bridge, he had no idea where, the metal of the railing burning cold under his hands, looking down and knowing how easy it would be… Just a few steps and it could all stop, he could just stop feeling. The anger and shame and guilt and fear and the aching cavity where his heart was supposed to be. He remembered looking down into the darkness and realising that he wasn’t afraid to die any more, because being alive hurt too much, because it would be better not to exist at all. What was he in the world but a waste of space? Death would be better than this pointless existence.

He had wanted to scream and cry and break something, but he had just stood there, empty and aching, staring into the dark. Wishing he was brave enough to do it, that he was strong enough to jump. But he couldn’t summon the courage, couldn’t will himself to move. Eventually he must have left there, because he was here now, and Harry was shaking him again.

“Don’t you dare,” said Harry fiercely, “don’t you fucking dare. Not ever.”

Draco forced himself to look him in the eye. Harry looked angry, but also terrified, and Draco knew that even if he was strong enough, even if he could work up the courage, he would never do it, he couldn’t ever do that to Harry. Not after all he’d done for Draco, all the times he had saved him.

“I won’t,” Draco said, “I promise.”

“You better fucking not,” Harry said tearfully. “I swear if you die I’m going to fucking kill you, you hear me?”

Despite everything, Draco laughed. “Noted.”

Harry hugged him again. “Good Lord, you’re freezing,” he said, looking Draco up and down, feeling his face and hands. “And no wonder, you were out there for hours, without a cloak…”

Draco let Harry drag him into the sitting room, cast a warming charm, wrap him in a blanket and sit him in front of the fire. Then Harry left, before Draco found a way to articulate how much he did not want to be left alone. He stared blankly at the fire, watching the flames, not thinking about anything. Eventually Harry came back and he brought a steaming mug of tea, which he carefully placed in Draco’s hands.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” Harry said. He sat down on the sofa next to him. “I shouldn’t have made you do it. You told me what would happen and I wouldn’t listen. I should have listened. I should have believed you. I knew they'd be shocked, but I never imagined… I’m just… I’m really sorry, okay?”

Draco shook his head, staring into his mug. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s sort of my fault,” Harry argued. “But you’re right, mostly it’s your dad’s fault. That’s stuff he said… I swear I wanted to kill him. Hell, I still do.”

“Don’t,” Draco said softly. He didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t want to have to defend his father to Harry, because right now he hated his father so much he could barely breathe. “Just… don’t.”

“Sorry,” said Harry.

There was a silence. As heat slowly returned to his body, Draco felt himself start to tremble. Carefully, he placed the untouched mug of tea onto the table.

“I get that he’s your dad,” said Harry after a while. “I get that you care about him. But Draco… so many of the bad things in your life have been because of him. He isn’t a good man.”

“That’s not what you said when you got him out of Azkaban,” Draco said.

Harry sighed. “Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” Draco could feel his fingers again but he was just as numb. The emptiness his chest was painful, spreading, eating him from the inside. “I don’t know anything any more.”

“Look, I understand what it’s like to trust someone, love them even, only to have them hurt you,” said Harry. “I mean… I know it’s not the same, obviously, I never knew my parents. But… Dumbledore, he was like that, like your father. He said he cared about me, that he was helping me, but… I don’t think he was a good person, either. All the reasons he gave me – why I had to stay with the Dursleys, why he sat back and watched me get hurt over and over – they were just excuses. I didn’t have a dad and I thought Dumbledore could be that for me, but he didn’t love me. He used me.”

Through the numbness, Draco felt a stab of irritation. “Can you not make this about you?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” said Harry. “I just… Sometimes we love people that don’t deserve it, even if we wish they did.”

Draco pulled his knees up to his chest and curled into a ball. He was always chastising himself for crying too much, but now he would have welcomed the tears. Anything but the dull ache that had taken over his body, that made it impossible to think, to feel, to exist.

“I don’t want this to end,” he found himself saying. “I was… I was happy with you. I never thought I could be so happy.”

“What do you mean ‘was’?” asked Harry sharply.

Draco sighed. He wished that for once Harry would just understand, that he didn’t have to explain. He was so tired and words were so hard to gather into sentences. “This is the end for us. You know it as well as I do.”

“Why?” Harry demanded. “Because your father doesn’t approve? Draco, after the way he treated you, the way he’s treated you your whole life, I can’t believe—“

“Stop it!” Draco snapped, cutting him off. He jumped to his feet, throwing the blanket off his shoulders, and stalked to the opposite side of the room. His nails dug into his palms and he tried to take a deep breath before he said something he couldn’t take back.

“Draco?” said Harry behind him, voice ringing with worry.

Draco swirled around. “Why have you got to be so thick?” he shouted. “Why do you refuse to understand? You had me believing that this could be fine, that it would be, even, you and your _friends_ who _love_ you so much that they’ll even put up with me! But this—“ he gestured wildly at everything and nothing in particular “--this what people really think! What my father said? That’s only just the beginning of what they’ll say about us! About you. If you can’t understand that, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

The burst of anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen, leaving him even more exhausted than he had been. Draco buried his face in his hands and sank to the floor. After a moment he felt Harry kneel down beside him, place a hand on his shoulder.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” said Harry, “I know all of that, and I don’t care. Draco, the papers have been going on about me since before I could read. I’ve been called a liar, I’ve been called insane, they’ve put words in my mouth and twisted everything I’ve said, turned it against me. There’s nothing they can say to me that I haven’t heard before. I’m afraid of a lot of things but I sure as hell aren’t afraid of Rita bloody Skeeter.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s jaw and pulled his head up, forcing him to meet his eye. He looked determined in a way that was almost scary. Draco swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“If you want to give up on me, on us, because you’re afraid, that’s fine,” Harry said firmly, “but don’t pretend like you’re doing it for me, because I love you, Draco, and I’m all in, come hell or high water.”

Draco shook his head. “I _am_ doing it for you,” he said quietly. “I won’t drag you down with me. I won’t do that to you, not ever. You still have a future.”

Harry’s laugh was so humourless and hysterical that Draco started. “ _I_ have a future?” Harry echoed. “Draco, take a good look at yourself. You’re the one with the Ministry job and the promising career. Me, though? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got nothing. I have no job, no plans, certainly no future. All I’ve got is this bloody house that’s full of ghosts, and not the kind you can talk to.”

“But you’re Harry Potter,” Draco mumbled, although he wasn’t exactly sure what the point was that he was trying to make.

“Maybe that doesn’t mean anything any more,” said Harry, his voice cracking as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Maybe I’m tired of being Harry Potter.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He should have said something, something comforting, something that would make it all alright. Harry would have known what to say. But Harry was the one that needed help this time, so Draco wrapped his arms around him, kissed the top of his head and whispered, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“You’re not going to leave me,” Harry muttered into his shoulder. “I won’t let you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a comment by friendly neighbourhood reader Vittoria_Nerd, I realised Draco pretty much cries in every chapter, so I made a point of avoiding it in this one :D Although I maintain it's not my fault that he's a depressed drama queen :D Only one more chapter after this one!!


	24. Chapter 24

It was a week since the fateful Christmas dinner, and it had not been a good week for Draco. He was numb, exhausted, and he couldn’t seem to summon the will to do much of anything; some days he could barely get out of bed. Then again, it could have been worse. At least he wasn’t alone. At least Harry was there, holding his hand, stroking his hair, telling him it would all be alright. Draco wanted to believe him, but he didn’t seem to believe anything much at the moment, he couldn’t see the point.

“…3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”

Draco stared blankly at the surface of his untouched drink as the crowd around him burst into cheers, kissing, laughing and clinking glasses. Another year gone, then. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Harry emerged from the crowd.

“There you are,” he said, and pulled Draco into a kiss. As their lips met, the room fell silent. Well, not quite silent, perhaps, but there was a noticeable decrease in noise. Draco froze, equally afraid to return the kiss and to pull away.

He knew he shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t as if Gr–Hermione and Ron actually wanted Draco in their home any more than he wanted to be there. But the thought of staying behind, of being alone with his thoughts, had felt unbearable. Harry had offered to stay with him, but Draco refused to ruin his night, keep him from his friends. So here he was, and now they were both about to be lynched by the mob.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Draco felt Harry grin against his lips.

There were a few scattered cheers – and then the party moved on. The noise returned, people turned away, and someone turned up the music.

Harry pulled back, smiling. “Happy New Year,” he whispered.

“Happy New Year,” Draco echoed.

“How do you feel?” asked Harry.

“I’m fine,” Draco replied. Right now, it felt almost true. They were here, together, and no one seemed to care. It was a new year and maybe there was a chance it could work out.

There had been an owl from Narcissa on Boxing Day. _Draco_ , she wrote, _you are and will always be my son. No matter what. I will manage your father._

Draco had stared at the letter for at least ten minutes, uncomprehending, until Harry had run out of patience and snatched it out of his hands.

“Draco, this is great,” he had exclaimed. “You hear me, Draco? Forget Lucius, your mum is on our side. She’s on your side.”

Draco had nodded, thinking absently that he would believe it when he saw it. He didn’t doubt that Narcissa meant what she said, but he found it hard to imagine she would ever go against her husband, not even for Draco.

“She controls the family fortune,” Harry had reminded him. “She’s in charge now.”

In the present, Harry said, “Do you want to dance?”

Draco glanced around self-consciously. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he replied.

Harry shook his head. “Draco, you twit,” he said affectionately, “they just watched us kiss and no one cared. Just get over yourself already.”

“There’s a lot of people here,” Draco protested. “What if someone from the press snuck in? I heard Rita Skeeter is an animagus.”

“She is,” said Harry, “Hermione kept her in a jar for a year.”

Draco blinked. “Granger did _what_?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “she’s a little intense sometimes.”

“Understatement,” said Weas–Ron, flopping down onto the sofa next to Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Now what?” he asked. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” said Ron defensively. “She just said she needed to take care of something and disappeared. Don’t know if I should be worried. She got petrified that one time.”

“Well, I’m hoping you aren’t keeping a basilisk anywhere in the flat. I can’t even speak Parseltongue any more,” said Harry cheerfully. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Ron didn’t seem to be really listening; he was focused on eyeing Draco suspiciously while appearing not to be looking at him. He wasn’t very good at it – Draco would know, he’d practiced on Harry for years.

“What do you want, Weasley?” asked Draco half-heartedly. He wasn’t in the mood for a row. Actually he would have been in the mood for a nap. Preferably one that lasted at least a week.

“Nothing,” said Ron quickly, as Harry turned to glare at him. He raised his hands defensively. “Honestly, Harry, don’t give me that look! I’ve told you I don’t have a problem with him.” When Harry still didn’t look convinced, he continued, “I was just wondering if he’s alright, you know? I can’t imagine… if my dad said something like…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Draco felt bile rising in his throat as he turned to Harry. “You told them?” he croaked.

“Of course I told them. They’re my best mates, I tell them everything,” Harry said, like it was Draco who was unbelievable and not him.

“ _Everything_?” Draco echoed, feeling his face flush.

“Almost everything,” Harry corrected with a sheepish grin directed at Ron.

“Which I’m grateful for,” said Ron, looking put off.

“Draco?”

All three of them turned to look up at Hermione, who appeared to have a small army in tow: Lovegood, Longbottom and Ginny, all of whom had been friendly enough with Draco, but also Seamus Finnigan, and worst of all, George Weasley.

“Oh, good, you’re here too,” Hermione said to Harry and Ron. “Draco, George and Seamus have something to tell you.”

Draco hardly dared look at either of them, but even a cursory glance at their faces told him that neither Weasley nor Finnigan were remotely happy to be standing there. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“And the rest of you?” he asked, hoping feebly that this wasn’t that he thought it was.

Hermione shrugged. “It was Luna and Neville’s idea, I just made it happen,” she said.

“And I’m just here for the show,” said Ginny brightly. Draco bit the inside of his cheek. So they were here to finish what they started at the Patils’.

Draco realised he had instinctively grabbed Harry’s hand, as if the mere act of holding it would save him, somehow, and he hated him for being so weak. Had he always been so completely incapable of defending himself? He couldn’t remember. There had always been someone stronger to defend him, his father, Crabbe and Goyle, now Harry.

Right on cue, Harry said, “I’m not sure it’s a good time for this, Hermione.”

“Nonsense,” said Hermione. “Best start the New Year right. George?”

George Weasley glared at Hermione, then at his sister, and finally at Ron and Harry. When no one intervened, he finally sighed and reluctantly turned to Draco.

“’Msorry,” he muttered.

“Can’t hear you, George,” said Longbottom helpfully.

“You should speak up,” suggested Lovegood brightly.

“Fine!” snapped Weasley. “I’m sorry!”

“Yeah,” echoed Finnigan, shuffling his feet. “We got a bit too carried away at Parvati’s.”

“A bit?” said Harry sharply. Draco hadn’t even noticed him wrapping his arm around him protectively.

“Give it a rest, Harry, we’re trying to apologise,” Finnigan said.

“You could have killed him,” Harry argued. “Probably would have if I hadn’t stopped you. And Ginny, don’t just stand there snickering, acting like you weren’t going to hex him.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that you were going to start shagging him?” Ginny demanded. Draco stared at his feet. He didn’t need to see their appalled looks.

“Malfoy,” said Weasley gruffly. “I really am sorry, all right?”

Draco braved a glance at him. He didn’t look like he was fucking with him, but there was no way to know, really. Except that Harry had visibly relaxed next to him, and the Weasleys were like brothers to him, and Draco trusted him, which meant that he should be able to trust the Weasleys too, right? Or was that wishful thinking?

“We all lost people. We shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” Weasley continued. “After Fred…” an acute look of pain passed over his face “…after Fred died, I’ve been lost.” Draco realised that he looked it. The Weasley twins had always seemed to be so full of life they were about to explode; at least one of them had always been laughing at any given time. Now George Weasley had a haggard look to him, his eyes sunken in and sad.

“We’re all lost without him,” Ginny chimed in, smiling sadly.

“But you didn’t kill anyone,” Finnigan said. “You didn’t choose who your parents are any more than the rest of us.”

“My parents have been in St.Mungo’s my whole life,” said Longbottom.

“My dad is a little weird sometimes,” Lovegood volunteered.

“Ours is obsessed with muggles,” said Ron.

“My parents _are_ muggles,” Hermione concluded. “Point is, we’re all our own people, people who’ve done good things and bad things. You’re no exception.”

Draco felt Harry’s arm tighten around him. Abruptly grateful, he leaned against his shoulder. There was a lump in his throat and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was still afraid one of them would attack him or because the thought of actually being forgiven, of being pardoned for not only his crimes but those of his father as well, had him fighting back tears.

“We just wanted to let you know that you won’t get any more trouble from any of us, not ever,” said Longbottom.

“And I’ll give a piece of my mind to anyone who tries,” said Ginny ominously, as if she hadn’t been itching to bat-bogey hex Draco mere months ago.

There was an expectant silence, during which Draco wondered if it would really happen, because this was too good to be true, all of it. Harry, the Ministry job, his mother knowing and being fine with it, all these people knowing and being fine with it, and furthermore, being fine with him. Draco was suddenly overcome by the horrifying thought that it had all been a dream, that he would wake up any moment now in his dingy flat and have to go back to work at the bookshop and everyone would still hate him, Harry most of all.

Harry nudged Draco gently, snapping him out of his head.

“Right. I… uh…” he stammered, cheeks flushed, trying to avoid eye-contact with everyone at once. “Thank you. And I’m sorry. For everything. For everyone… everyone who died.”

“Like they said,” said Hermione decisively, “not your fault.” She turned to the others behind her. “Okay, you are officially released. Go have fun.” She made shooing motions with her hands.

“Yes, Mum,” said Ginny and stuck her tongue out at her. As the others dispersed, she sauntered over to the sofa and then – inexplicably – patted Draco on the head. “Don’t frown so much, Malfoy,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll get wrinkles.” Laughing at the varying degrees of astonishment ranging from Hermione’s mild surprise to Draco’s utter shock, she disappeared into the crowd.

Hermione pushed her bushy hair out of her face. “Another job well done, then,” she said contently. “Come on, Ron, let’s dance.”

Ron grabbed her outstretched hand and pulled himself up. “Gladly.”

Alone again, Harry turned to look at Draco. He was smiling, looking happier than Draco had seen him since before Christmas. “Will you ever start believing me when I tell you everything is going to be fine?” he asked.

Draco felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Harry kissed him, first on his forehead, then his nose, finally on the mouth. “Now will you dance with me?” he mumbled, breath hot against Draco’s lips.

“Get me another drink,” said Draco, “and I just might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, ladies and gentlemen and others, we are done! Sorry that the last part took me so long, got busy with the holidays and stuff. I don't have any active plans on more fics after this, but I'm definitely open to ideas, and I might consider writing something from other fandoms or other HP couples. I do also have quite a bit of original stuff I could potentially post should anyone be interested. Feel free to message me whenever about whatever :) Thanks to everyone for being so nice and supportive and feeding my ego in the comments, you all mean the world to me!! Hope everyone has a very happy 2018!!


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